PC-NRLF 


7M7 


ATLANTIC  NARRATIVES 

Modern  Short  Stories 

.  5  e  A.1L-- 

EDITED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

CHARLES  SWAIN  THOMAS,  A.M. 

Head  of  Department  of  English,  Cleveland  School  of  Education 
Lecturer  in  the  Harvard  Summer  School 


SECOND  SERIES 


Atlantic  ^Hontftlp 

BOSTON 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS,  INC. 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION vii 

THE  LIE Mary  Antin 1 

BLUE  REEFERS  ....     Elizabeth  Ashe      ....  29 

THE  DEBT Kathleen  Carman       ...  40 

SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED 

FIRE Cornelia  A.  P.  Comer      .      .  50 

BURIED  TREASURE  .     .     .     M azo  De  La  Roche    ...  69 
THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE- 
BELIEVE     Annie  Hamilton  Donnell      .  94 

THE  Two  APPLES   .      .      .     James  Edmund  Dunning      .  100 

THE  PURPLE  STAR  .      .      .     Rebecca  Hooper  Eastman      .  105 

RUGGS  —  R.O.T.C. .      .      .     William  Addleman  Ganoe     .  125 

THE  WAY  OF  LIFE       .     .     Lucy  Huffaker      ....  145 

A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  .     Joseph  Husband  ....  159 

WOMAN'S  SPHERE    .     .     .     S.  H.  Kemper      ....  181 

BABANCHIK    .      .      .      .      .     Christina  Krysto  .      ...  190 

ROSITA Ellen  Mackubin    ....  207 

PERJURED Edith  Ronald  Mirrielees.      .  222 

WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID      .     Margaret  Prescott  Montague  237 

A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  .     E.  Morlae 249 

THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES    Meredith  Nicholson    .      .      .  274 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  Kathleen  Norris    ....  282 

SPENDTHRIFTS     ....     Laura  Spencer  Portor      .      .  298 

CHILDREN  WANTED       .     .     Lucy  Pratt 323 

THE  SQUIRE        ....     Elsie  Singmaster        .      .      .  339 

GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE     Charles  Haskins  Townsend  .  350 

IN  NOVEMBER    ....     Edith  Wyatt 357 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  INTERPRETATIVE  NOTES     ....  369 


43181 


INTRODUCTION 

FOB  those  readers  who  have  from  early  childhood  been 
taught  that  the  best  things  are  the  old  things,  it  is  often 
times  difficult  to  revert  in  imagination  to  the  times  when 
such  classics  as  Paradise  Lost,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and 
Robinson  Crusoe,  new  and  unread,  were  just  beginning  to 
make  their  first  tentative  steps  in  the  march  toward  the 
unknown  and  unseen  goal  of  enduring  fame.  Yet  the  in 
trinsic  literary  worth  of  these  classics  was  obviously  just  as 
firm  in  those  far-off  days  of  their  initial  appearance  as  in 
these  present  days  of  their  acquired  renown. 

But  in  these  present  days,  with  the  improved  printing- 
presses  moving  at  high  speed  and  pouring  forth  every 
where  their  improvident  and  unsifted  store,  the  best  is  too 
liable  to  be  lost  within  the  swift  current  of  a  vast  and  tur 
bid  abundance.  It  is,  therefore,  worth  while  for  us  —  for 
those  of  us  who  have  an  abiding  love  of  literature  —  to  en 
deavor  to  rescue  and  place  in  more  permanent  form  the 
choicest  bits  of  this  modern  efflux  of  writing,  and  make  it 
easily  available  for  a  more  leisurely  and  intelligent  perusal. 

With  this  thought  in  mind,  I  have  for  several  months 
been  reading  widely  in  the  files  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
with  the  idea  of  republishing  the  best  of  the  recent  stories 
in  book  form.  A  partial  result  of  my  labors  is  seen  in 
Atlantic  Narratives  (First  Series),  published  by  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  Press  in  March  of  the  current  year.  In  selecting 
the  twenty-three  stories  for  that  volume,  I  had  the  college 
student  and  the  mature  reader  more  definitely  in  mind. 
Some  of  these  stories,  accordingly,  were  perhaps  a  trifle  too 
subtle  and  analytical  for  the  younger  student,  though  it  is 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

interesting  to  note  that  the  volume  immediately  found  an 
interested  audience,  not  only  among  college  students  and 
the  reading  public,  but  also  within  the  classrooms  of  some 
of  our  best  schools  and  academies. 

Several  of  the  more  prominent  English  teachers,  how 
ever,  expressed  a  wish  for  a  group  of  narratives  simpler, 
more  direct,  and  filled  with  incidents  of  a  commoner  and 
more  elemental  experience  —  such  as  would  make  an  im 
mediate  appeal  to  a  younger  class  of  readers.  I  have  ac 
cordingly  made  the  selections  for  this  second  volume  of 
Atlantic  Narratives  with  this  particular  request  in  mind. 
At  the  same  time  that  I  have  discarded  the  subtler  and 
more  analytical  themes,  I  have  held  rigorously  to  the  de 
mand  for  genuine  literary  excellence  and  artistic  technique. 
Discriminating  critics  will  agree  that  for  a  writer  to  limit 
himself  to  the  narrower  confines  of  the  simple  and  the  com 
monplace  and  the  elemental,  may,  in  particular  cases, 
demand  even  a  finer  grace  and  a  higher  technique. 

The  stories  here  gathered  together,  while  possessing  the 
attributes  and  range  which  the  English  teachers  have  sug 
gested,  are  widely  varying  in  appeal  and  in  centres  of  inter 
est.  Miss  Mary  Antin's  story,  'The  Lie/  for  example,  re 
veals,  in  significant  portrayal,  a  unique  attitude  of  mind 
among  the  patriotic  foreigners;  Miss  Elizabeth  Ashe,  Miss 
Kathleen  Norris,  and  S.  H.  Kemper  have,  in  their  several 
manners,  pleasantly  revealed  their  appreciation  of  the  hu 
morous;  Mrs.  Comer  and  Miss  Eastman  and  Mr.  Meredith 
Nicholson  have  lent  a  note  of  idealism;  Mr.  Joseph  Hus 
band  and  Mr.  E.  Morlae  have  contributed  true  accounts 
of  their  personal  experiences;  and  the  remaining  writers  on 
the  list  have,  in  their  various  individual  ways,  found  still 
other  moods  and  themes  appropriate  to  their  individuali 
ties.  The  net  result  is  a  literary  variety  that  merges  appro 
priately,  I  trust,  into  a  unit  of  genuine  and  abiding  worth. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

For  helpful  aid  in  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  I  am 
indebted  to  many  English  teachers,  more  particularly  to 
Miss  Anna  Shaughnessy,  of  the  English  department  in  the 
Newton  High  School.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  has 
generously  granted  me  permission  to  use  Mr.  Husband's 
'The  Story  of  a  Coal-Mine.'  Mr.  George  B.  Ives,  expert 
critic  and  proof-reader,  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  staff,  has 
read  and  revised  the  proofs.  Most  of  all,  however,  I  am 
indebted  to  Mr.  Ellery  Sedgwick,  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  whose  friendly  counsel  and  literary  acumen  have 
been  of  constant  service. 

C.  S.  T. 
BOSTON,  MASS. 

July,  1918 


ATLANTIC  NARRATIVES 

THE  LIE 

BY   MARY   ANTIN 


THE  first  thing  about  his  American  teachers  that  struck 
David  Rudinsky  was  the  fact  that  they  were  women,  and 
the  second  was  that  they  did  not  get  angry  if  somebody 
asked  questions.  This  phenomenon  subverted  his  previ 
ous  experience.  When  he  went  to  heder  (Hebrew  school), 
in  Russia,  his  teachers  were  always  men,  and  they  did  not 
like  to  be  interrupted  with  questions  that  were  not  in  the 
lesson.  Everything  was  different  in  America,  and  David 
liked  the  difference. 

The  American  teachers,  on  their  part,  also  made  com 
parisons.  They  said  David  was  not  like  other  children. 
It  was  not  merely  that  his  mind  worked  like  lightning; 
those  neglected  Russian  waifs  were  almost  always  quick  to 
learn,  perhaps  because  they  had  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 
The  quality  of  his  interest,  more  than  the  rapidity  of  his 
progress,  excited  comment.  Miss  Ralston,  David's  teacher 
in  the  sixth  grade,  which  he  reached  in  his  second  year  at 
school,  said  of  him  that  he  never  let  go  of  a  lesson  till  he  had 
got  the  soul  of  the  matter.  *I  don't  think  grammar  is 
grammar  to  him/  she  said,  'or  fractions  mere  arithmetic. 
I'm  not  satisfied  with  the  way  I  teach  these  things  since 
I've  had  David.  I  feel  that  if  he  were  on  the  platform  in 
stead  of  me,  geography  and  grammar  would  be  spliced  to 
the  core  of  the  universe.' 

One  difficulty  David's  teachers  encountered,  and  that 
was  his  extreme  reserve.  In  private  conversation  it  was 


LIE 

hard  to  get  anything  out  of  him  except  'yes,  ma'am'  and 
'  no,  ma'am,'  or,  *  I  don't  understand,  please.'  In  the  class 
room  he  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  the  existence  of  any 
body  besides  Teacher  and  himself.  He  asked  questions  as 
fast  as  he  could  formulate  them,  and  Teacher  had  to  exer 
cise  much  tact  in  order  to  satisfy  him  without  slighting  the 
rest  of  her  pupils.  To  advances  of  a  personal  sort  he  did 
not  respond,  as  if  friendship  were  not  among  the  things  he 
hungered  for. 

It  was  Miss  Ralston  who  found  the  way  to  David's  heart. 
Perhaps  she  was  interested  in  such  things;  they  sometimes 
are,  in  the  public  schools.  After  the  Christmas  holidays, 
the  children  were  given  as  a  subject  for  composition,  'How 
I  spent  the  Vacation.'  David  wrote  in  a  froth  of  enthu 
siasm  about  whole  days  spent  in  the  public  library.  He 
covered  twelve  pages  with  an  account  of  the  books  he  had 
read.  The  list  included  many  juvenile  classics  in  American 
history  and  biography;  and  from  his  comments  it  was  plain 
that  the  little  alien  worshiped  the  heroes  of  war. 

When  Miss  Ralston  had  read  David's  composition,  she 
knew  what  to  do.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  who  al 
ways  know  what  to  do>  and  do  it.  She  asked  David  to  stay 
after  school,  and  read  to  him,  from  a  blue  book  with  gilt 
lettering,  'Paul  Revere's  Ride'  and  'Independence  Bell.' 
That  hour  neither  of  them  ever  forgot.  To  David  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  heroes  he  had  dreamed  of  crowded  around  him, 
so  real  did  his  teacher's  reading  make  them.  He  heard  the 
clash  of  swords  and  the  flapping  of  banners  in  the  wind. 
On  the  blackboard  behind  Miss  Ralston  troops  of  faces 
appeared  and  vanished,  like  the  shadows  that  run  across  a 
hillside  when  clouds  are  moving  in  the  sky.  As  for  Miss 
Ralston,  she  said  afterwards  that  she  was  the  first  person 
who  had  ever  seen  the  real  David  Rudinsky.  That  was  a 
curious  statement  to  make,  considering  that  his  mother  and 


THE  LIE  3 

father,  and  sundry  other  persons  in  the  two  hemispheres, 
had  had  some  acquaintance  with  David  previous  to  the 
reading  of  'Paul  Revere's  Ride.'  However,  Miss  Ralston 
had  a  way  of  saying  curious  things. 

There  were  many  readings  out  of  school  hours,  after  that 
memorable  beginning.  Miss  Ralston  did  not  seem  to  real 
ize  that  the  School  Board  did  not  pay  her  for  those  extra 
hours  that  she  spent  on  David.  David  did  not  know  that 
she  was  paid  at  all.  He  thought  Teacher  was  born  on  pur 
pose  to  read  and  tell  him  things  and  answer  his  questions, 
just  as  his  mother  existed  to  cook  his  favorite  soup  and 
patch  his  trousers.  So  he  brought  his  pet  book  from  the 
library,  and  when  the  last  pupil  was  gone,  he  took  it  from 
his  desk  and  laid  it  on  Miss  Ralston's,  without  a  word;  and 
Miss  Ralston  read,  and  they  were  both  happy.  When  a 
little  Jewish  boy  from  Russia  goes  to  school  in  America,  all 
sorts  of  things  are  likely  to  happen  that  the  School  Board 
does  not  provide  for.  It  might  be  amusing  to  figure  out  the 
reasons. 

David's  reserve  slowly  melted  in  the  glowing  intimacy  of 
these  happy  half -hours;  still,  he  seldom  made  any  comment 
on  the  reading  at  the  time;  he  basked  mutely  in  the  warmth 
of  his  teacher's  sympathy.  But  what  he  did  not  say  orally 
he  was  very  likely  to  say  on  paper.  That  also  was  one  of 
Miss  Ralston's  discoveries.  When  she  gave  out  the  theme, 
'What  I  Mean  to  Do  When  I  Grow  Up,'  David  wrote  that 
he  was  going  to  be  an  American  citizen,  and  always  vote  for 
honest  candidates,  and  belong  to  a  society  for  arresting  ille 
gal  voters.  You  see  David  was  only  a  greenhorn,  and  an 
excitable  one.  He  thought  it  a  very  great  matter  to  be  a 
citizen,  perhaps  because  such  a  thing  was  not  allowed  in  the 
country  he  came  from.  Miss  Ralston  probably  knew  how 
it  was  with  him,  or  she  guessed.  She  was  great  at  guessing, 
as  all  her  children  knew.  At  any  rate,  she  did  not  smile  as 


4  THE  LIE 

she  read  of  David's  patriotic  ambitions.  She  put  his  paper 
aside  until  their  next  quiet  hour,  and  then  she  used  it  so 
as  to  get  a  great  deal  out  of  him  that  he  would  not  have  had 
the  courage  to  tell  if  he  had  not  believed  that  it  was  an  ex 
ercise  in  composition. 

This  Miss  Ralston  was  a  crafty  person.  She  learned 
from  David  about  a  Jewish  restaurant  where  his  father 
sometimes  took  him ;  a  place  where  a  group  of  ardent  young 
Russians  discussed  politics  over  their  inexpensive  dinner. 
She  heard  about  a  mass  meeting  of  Russian  Jews  to  cele 
brate  the  death  of  Alexander  III,  *  because  he  was  a  cruel 
tyrant,  and  was  very  bad  to  Jewish  people.*  She  even 
tracked  some  astonishing  phrases  in  David's  vocabulary  to 
their  origin  in  the  Sunday  orations  he  had  heard  on  the 
Common,  in  his  father's  company. 

Impressed  by  these  and  other  signs  of  paternal  interest 
in  her  pupil's  education,  Miss  Ralston  was  not  unprepared 
for  the  visit  which  David's  father  paid  her  soon  after  these 
revelations.  It  was  a  very  cold  day,  and  Mr.  Rudinsky 
shivered  in  his  thin,  shabby  overcoat;  but  his  face  glowed 
with  inner  warmth  as  he  discovered  David's  undersized 
figure  in  one  of  the  front  seats. 

'I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  what  I  feel  to  see  my  boy  sit 
ting  and  learning  like  this,'  he  said,  with  a  vibration  in  his 
voice  that  told  more  than  his  words.  'Do  you  know, 
ma'am,  if  I  didn't  ha  veto  make  a  living,  I'd  like  to  stay  here 
all  day  and  see  my  David  get  educated.  I'm  forty  years 
old,  and  I've  had  much  in  my  life,  but  it's  worth  nothing  so 
much  as  this.  The  day  I  brought  my  children  to  school,  it 
was  the  best  day  in  my  life.  Perhaps  you  won't  believe 
me,  ma'am,  but  when  I  hear  that  David  is  a  good  boy  and 
learns  good  in  school,  I  would  n't  change  places  with  Van- 
derbilt  the  millionaire.' 


THE  LIE  5 

He  looked  at  Miss  Ralston  with  the  eyes  of  David  listen 
ing  to  'Paul  Revere's  Ride/ 

'What  do  you  think,  ma'am,'  he  asked,  as  he  got  up  to 
leave,  '  my  David  will  be  a  good  American,  no  ? ' 

'He  ought  to  be/  said  Miss  Ralston,  warmly,  'with  such 
a  father/ 

Mr.  Rudinsky  did  not  try  to  hide  his  gratification. 

'  I  am  a  citizen/  he  said,  unconsciously  straightening.  '  I 
took  out  citizen  papers  as  soon  as  I  came  to  America,  four 
years  ago/ 

So  they  came  to  the  middle  of  February,  when  prepara 
tions  for  Washington's  Birthday  were  well  along.  One  day 
the  class  was  singing '  America/  when  Miss  Ralston  noticed 
that  David  stopped  and  stared  absently  at  the  blackboard 
in  front  of  him.  He  did  not  wake  out  of  his  reverie  till  the 
singing  was  over,  and  then  he  raised  his  hand. 

'Teacher/  he  asked,  when  he  had  permission  to  speak, 
'what  does  it  mean,  "Land  where  my  fathers  died"?' 

Miss  Ralston  explained,  wondering  how  many  of  her 
pupils  cared  to  analyze  the  familiar  words  as  David  did. 

A  few  days  later,  the  national  hymn  was  sung  again. 
Miss  Ralston  watched  David.  His  lips  formed  the  words 
'Land  where  my  fathers  died/  and  then  they  stopped,  set 
in  the  pout  of  childish  trouble.  His  eyes  fixed  themselves 
on  the  teacher's,  but  her  smile  of  encouragement  failed  to 
dispel  his  evident  perplexity. 

Anxious  to  help  him  over  his  unaccountable  difficulty, 
Miss  Ralston  detained  him  after  school. 

'David/  she  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone,  'do  you 
understand  "America"  now?' 

'Yes,  ma'am/ 

'Do  you  understand  "Land  where  my  fathers  died"?' 

'Yes,  ma'am/ 

'You  did  n't  sing  with  the  others/ 


6  THE  LIE 

'No,  ma'am.' 

Miss  Ralston  thought  of  a  question  that  would  rouse  him. 

'Don't  you  like  "America,"  David?' 

The  boy  almost  jumped  in  his  place. 

'Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  do!     I  like  "America."  ,  It's  —fine.' 

He  pressed  his  fist  nervously  to  his  mouth,  a  trick  he  had 
when  excited. 

'Tell  me,  David,  why  you  don't  sing  it.' 

David's  eyes  fixed  themselves  in  a  look  of  hopeless  long 
ing.  He  answered  in  a  whisper,  his  pale  face  slowly  red 
dening. 

'  My  fathers  did  n't  die  here.     How  can  I  sing  such  a  lie  ? ' 

Miss  Ralston's  impulse  was  to  hug  the  child,  but  she  was 
afraid  of  startling  him.  The  attention  she  had  lavished  on 
the  boy  was  rewarded  at  this  moment,  when  her  under 
standing  of  his  nature  inspired  the  answer  to  his  troubled 
question.  She  saw  how  his  mind  worked.  She  realized, 
what  a  less  sympathetic  witness  might  have  failed  to  real 
ize,  that  behind  the  moral  scruple  expressed  in  his  words, 
there  was  a  sense  of  irreparable  loss  derived  from  the  knowl 
edge  that  he  had  no  share  in  the  national  past.  The  other 
children  could  shout  the  American  hymn  in  all  the  pride  of 
proprietorship,  but  to  him  the  words  did  not  apply.  It  was 
a  flaw  in  his  citizenship,  which  he  was  so  jealous  to  establish. 

The  teacher's  words  were  the  very  essence  of  tact  and 
sympathy.  In  her  voice  were  mingled  the  yearning  of  a 
mother  and  the  faith  of  a  comrade. 

'David  Rudinsky,  you  have  as  much  a  right  to  those 
words  as  I  or  anybody  else  in  America.  Your  ancestors  did 
not  die  on  our  battlefields,  but  they  would  have  if  they'd 
had  a  chance.  You  used  to  spend  all  your  time  reading 
the  Hebrew  books,  in  Russia.  Don't  you  know  how  your 
people  —  your  ancestors,  perhaps!  —  fought  the  Roman 
tyrants?  Don't  you  remember  the  Maccabean  brothers, 


THE  LIE  7 

and  Bar  Kochba,  and  —  oh,  you  know  about  them  more 
than  I !  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you  that  I  have  n't  read  much 
Jewish  history,  but  I'm  sure  if  we  begin  to  look  it  up,  we'll 
find  that  people  of  your  race  —  people  like  your  father, 
David  —  took  part  in  the  fight  for  freedom,  wherever 
they  were  allowed.  And  even  in  this  country  —  David, 
I'm  going  to  find  out  for  you  how  many  Jews  there  were  in 
the  armies  of  the  Revolution.  We  don't  think  about  it 
here,  you  see,  because  we  don't  ask  what  a  man's  religion 
is,  as  long  as  he  is  brave  and  good/ 

David's  eyes  slowly  lost  their  look  of  distress  as  his 
teacher  talked.  His  tense  little  face,  upturned  to  hers,  re 
minded  her  of  a  withered  blossom  that  revives  in  the  rain. 
She  went  on  with  increasing  earnestness,  herself  interested 
in  the  discoveries  she  was  making,  in  her  need. 

'I  tell  you  the  truth,  David,  I  never  thought  of  these 
things  before,  but  I  do  believe  that  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
did  n't  all  come  here  before  the  Revolution.  Is  n't  your 
father  just  like  them?  Think  of  it,  dear,  how  he  left  his 
home,  and  came  to  a  strange  land,  where  he  could  n't  even 
speak  the  language.  That  was  a  great  trouble,  you  know; 
something  like  the  fear  of  the  Indians  in  the  old  days.  And 
was  n't  he  looking  for  the  very  same  things  ?  He  wanted  free 
dom  for  himself  and  his  family,  and  a  chance  for  his  children 
to  grow  up  wise  and  brave.  You  know  your  father  cares  more 
for  such  things  than  he  does  for  money  or  anything.  It's 
the  same  story  over  again.  Every  ship  that  brings  your 
people  from  Russia  and  other  countries  where  they  are  ill- 
treated  is  a  Mayflower.  If  I  were  a  Jewish  child  like  you,  I 
would  sing  "America"  louder  than  anybody  else!' 

David's  adoring  eyes  gave  her  the  thanks  which  his 
tongue  would  not  venture  to  utter.  Never  since  that  mo 
ment,  soon  after  his  arrival  from  Russia,  when  his  father 
showed  him  his  citizenship  papers,  saying,  *  Look,  my  son, 


8  THE  LIE 

this  makes  you  an  American,'  had  he  felt  so  secure  in  his 
place  in  the  world. 

Miss  Ralston  studied  his  face  in  silence  while  she  gathered 
up  some  papers  on  her  desk,  preparatory  to  leaving.  In 
the  back  of  her  mind  she  asked  herself  to  how  many  of  the 
native  children  in  her  class  the  Fourth  of  July  meant  any 
thing  besides  fire-crackers. 

*  Get  your  things,  David,'  she  said  presently,  as  she  locked 
her  desk.     'It's  time  we  were  going.     Think  if  we  should 
get  locked  up  in  the  building ! ' 

David  smiled  absently.  In  his  ears  ran  the  familiar 
line,  'Land  where  my  fathers  died  —  my  fathers  died  — 
fathers  died.' 

*  It's  something  like  the  Psalms ! '  he  said  suddenly,  him 
self  surprised  at  the  discovery. 

4 What  is  like  the  Psalms,  dear?' 

He  hesitated.  Now  that  he  had  to  explain,  he  was  not 
sure  any  more.  Miss  Ralston  helped  him  out. 

'You  mean  "America,"  sounds  like  the  Psalms  to  you?' 

David  nodded.  His  teacher  beamed  her  understanding. 
How  did  she  guess  wherein  the  similarity  lay?  David  had 
in  mind  such  moments  as  this  when  he  said  of  Miss  Ralston, 
'Teacher  talks  with  her  eyes.' 

Miss  Ralston  went  to  get  her  coat  and  hat  from  the  closet. 

'Get  your  things,  David,'  she  repeated.  'The  janitor 
will  come  to  chase  us  out  in  a  minute.' 

He  was  struggling  with  the  torn  lining  of  a  coat-sleeve  in 
the  children's  dressing-room,  when  he  heard  Miss  Ralston 
exclaim, — 

'  Oh,  David !  I  had  almost  forgotten.  You  must  try  this 
on.  This  is  what  you're  going  to  wear  when  you  speak  the 
dialogue  with  Annie  and  Raymond.  We  used  it  in  a  play  a 
few  years  ago.  I  thought  it  would  do  for  you.' 

She  held  up  a  blue-and-buff  jacket  with  tarnished  epau- 


THE  LIE  9 

lets.  David  hurried  to  put  it  on.  He  was  to  take  the  part 
of  George  Washington  in  the  dialogue.  At  sight  of  the  cos 
tume,  his  heart  started  off  on  a  gallop. 

Alas  for  his  gallant  aspirations !  Nothing  of  David  was 
visible  outside  the  jacket  except  two  big  eyes  above  and  two 
blunt  boot-toes  below.  The  collar  reached  to  his  ears;  the 
cuffs  dangled  below  his  knees.  He  resembled  a  scarecrow 
in  the  cornfield  more  than  the  Father  of  his  Country. 

Miss  Ralston  suppressed  her  desire  to  laugh. 

'It's  a  little  big,  is  n't  it?'  she  said  cheerily,  holding  up 
the  shoulders  of  the  heroic  garment.  *  I  wonder  how  we  can 
make  it  fit.  Don't  you  think  your  mother  would  know 
how  to  take  up  the  sleeves  and  do  something  to  the  back?' 

She  turned  the  boy  around,  more  hopeless  than  she  would 
let  him  see.  Miss  Ralston  understood  more  about  little 
boys'  hearts  than  about  their  coats. 

'How  old  are  you,  David?'  she  asked,  absently,  wonder 
ing  for  the  hundredth  time  at  his  diminutive  stature.  '  I 
thought  the  boy  for  whom  this  was  made  was  about  your 
age.' 

David's  face  showed  that  he  felt  reproved.  'I'm  twelve,' 
he  said,  apologetically. 

Miss  Ralston  reproached  herself  for  her  tactlessness,  and 
proceeded  to  make  amends. 

'Twelve?'  she  repeated,  patting  the  blue  shoulders. 
'You  speak  the  lines  like  a  much  older  boy.  I'm  sure 
your  mother  can  make  the  coat  fit,  and  I'll  bring  the  wig  — 
a  powdered  wig  • —  and  the  sword,  David !  You'll  look  just 
like  George  Washington ! ' 

Her  gay  voice  echoed  in  the  empty  room.  Her  friendly 
eyes  challenged  his.  She  expected  to  see  him  kindle,  as  he 
did  so  readily  in  these  days  of  patriotic  excitement.  But 
David  failed  to  respond.  He  remained  motionless  in  his 
place,  his  eyes  blank  and  staring.  Miss  Ralston  had  the 


10  THE  LIE 

feeling  that  behind  his  dead  front  his  soul  was  running  away 
from  her. 

This  is  just  what  was  happening.  David  was  running 
away  from  her,  and  from  himself,  and  from  the  image  of 
George  Washington,  conjured  up  by  the  scene  with  the  mili 
tary  coat.  Somewhere  in  the  jungle  of  his  consciousness  a 
monster  was  stirring,  and  his  soul  fled  in  terror  of  its  clutch. 
What  was  it  — what  was  it  that  came  tearing  through  the 
wilderness  of  his  memories  of  two  worlds?  In  vain  he  tried 
not  to  understand.  The  ghosts  of  forgotten  impressions 
cackled  in  the  wake  of  the  pursuing  monster,  the  breath  of 
whose  nostrils  spread  an  odor  of  evil  sophistries  grafted  on 
his  boyish  thoughts  in  a  chimerical  past. 

His  mind  reeled  in  a  whirlwind  of  recollection.  Miss 
Ralston  could  not  have  understood  some  of  the  things 
David  reviewed,  even  if  he  had  tried  to  tell  her.  In  that 
other  life  of  his,  in  Russia,  had  been  monstrous  things, 
things  that  seemed  unbelievable  to  David  himself,  after  his 
short  experience  of  America.  He  had  suffered  many 
wrongs,  —  yes,  even  as  a  little  boy,  —  but  he  was  not  think 
ing  of  past  grievances  as  he  stood  before  Miss  Ralston,  see 
ing  her  as  one  sees  a  light  through  a  fog.  He  was  thinking 
of  things  harder  to  forget  than  injuries  received  from  others. 
It  was  a  sudden  sense  of  his  own  sins  that  frightened  David, 
and  of  one  sin  in  particular,  the  origin  of  which  was  buried 
somewhere  in  the  slime  of  the  evil  past.  David  was  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  a  complex  inheritance;  contradictory  im 
pulses  tore  at  his  heart.  Fearfully  he  dived  to  the  bottom 
of  his  consciousness,  and  brought  up  a  bitter  conviction: 
David  Rudinsky,  who  called  himself  an  American,  who 
worshiped  the  names  of  the  heroes,  suddenly  knew  that 
he  had  sinned,  sinned  against  his  best  friend,  sinned  even  as 
he  was  planning  to  impersonate  George  Washington,  the 
pattern  of  honor. 


THE  LIE  11 

His  white  forehead  glistened  with  the  sweat  of  anguish. 
His  eyes  sickened.  Miss  Ralston  caught  him  as  he  wavered 
and  put  him  in  the  nearest  seat. 

'Why,  David!  what's  the  matter?  Are  you  ill?  Let 
me  take  this  off  —  it's  so  heavy.  There,  that's  better. 
Just  rest  your  head  on  me,  so.' 

This  roused  him.  He  wriggled  away  from  her  support, 
and  put  out  a  hand  to  keep  her  off. 

4 Why,  David!  what  is  the  matter?     Your  hands  are  so 

cold  —  ' 

David's  head  felt  heavy  and  wobbly,  but  he  stood  up  and 
began  to  put  on  his  coat  again,  which  he  had  pulled  off  in 
order  to  try  on  the  uniform.  To  Miss  Ralston's  anxious 
questions  he  answered  not  a  syllable,  neither  did  he  look  at 
her  once.  His  teacher,  thoroughly  alarmed,  hurriedly  put 
on  her  street  things,  intending  to  take  him  home.  They 
walked  in  silence  through  the  empty  corridors,  down  the 
stairs,  and  across  the  school  yard.  The  teacher  noticed 
with  relief  that  the  boy  grew  steadier  with  every  step.  She 
smiled  at  him  encouragingly  when  he  opened  the  gate  for 
her,  as  she  had  taught  him,  but  he  did  not  meet  her  look. 

At  the  corner  where  they  usually  parted  David  paused, 
steeling  himself  to  take  his  teacher's  hand;  but  to  his  sur 
prise  she  kept  right  on,  taking  his  crossing. 

It  was  now  that  he  spoke,  and  Miss  Ralston  was  aston 
ished  at  the  alarm  in  his  voice. 

'Miss  Ralston,  where  are  you  going?  You  don't  go  this 
way.' 

*  I'm  going  to  see  you  home,  David,'  she  replied  firmly. 
'  I  can't  let  you  go  alone  —  like  this.' 

'Oh,  teacher,  don't,  please  don't!  I'm  all  right  —  I'm 
not  sick, —  it's  not  far  — Don't,  Miss  Ralston,  please!9 

In  the  February  dusk,  Miss  Ralston  saw  the  tears  rise  to 
his  eyes.  Whatever  was  wrong  with  him,  it  was  plain  that 


12  THE  LIE 

her  presence  only  made  him  suffer  the  more.     Accordingly 
she  yielded  to  his  entreaty. 

'I  hope  you'll  be  all  right,  David/  she  said,  in  a  tone  she 
might  have  used  to  a  full-grown  man.  *  Good-bye.'  And 
she  turned  the  corner. 

ii 

All  the  way  home  Miss  Ralston  debated  the  wisdom  of 
allowing  him  to  go  alone,  but  as  she  recalled  his  look  and 
his  entreating  voice,  she  felt  anew  the  compulsion  that  had 
made  her  yield.  She  attributed  his  sudden  breakdown  en 
tirely  to  overwrought  nerves,  and  remorsefully  resolved  not 
to  subject  him  in  the  future  to  the  strain  of  extra  hours  after 
school. 

Her  misgivings  were  revived  the  next  morning,  when 
David  failed  to  appear  with  the  ringing  of  the  first  gong,  as 
was  his  habit.  But  before  the  children  had  taken  their 
seats,  David's  younger  brother,  Bennie,  brought  her  news 
of  the  missing  boy. 

*  David's  sick  in  bed,'  he  announced  in  accents  of  extreme 
importance.  'He  did  n't  come  home  till  awful  late  last 
night,  and  he  was  so  frozen,  his  teeth  knocked  together. 
My  mother  says  he  burned  like  a  fire  all  night,  and  she  had 
to  take  little  Harry  in  her  bed,  with  her  and  papa,  so's 
David  could  sleep  all  alone.  We  all  went  downstairs  in  our 
bare  feet  this  morning,  and  dressed  ourselves  in  the  kitchen, 
so  David  could  sleep.' 

'What  is  the  matter  with  him?  Did  you  have  the  doc 
tor?' 

'No,  ma'am,  not  yet.  The  dispensary  don't  open  till 
nine  o'clock.' 

Miss  Ralston  begged  him  to  report  again  in  the  after 
noon,  which  he  did,  standing  before  her,  cap  in  hand,  his 
sense  of  importance  still  dominating  over  brotherly  concern. 


THE   LIE  13 

*He's  sick,  all  right,'  Bennie  reported.  'He  don't  eat  at 
all  —  just  drinks  and  drinks.  My  mother  says  he  cried 
the  whole  morning,  when  he  woke  up  and  found  out  he'd 
missed  school.  My  mother  says  he  tried  to  get  up  and 
dress  himself,  but  he  could  n't  anyhow.  Too  sick.' 

'Did  you  have  the  doctor?'  interrupted  Miss  Ralston, 
suppressing  her  impatience. 

'  No,  ma'am,  not  yet.  My  father  went  to  the  dispensary 
but  the  doctor  said  he  can't  come  till  noon,  but  he  did  n't. 
Then  I  went  to  the  dispensary,  dinner  time,  but  the  doctor 
did  n't  yet  come  when  we  went  back  to  school.  My  mother 
says  you  can  die  ten  times  before  the  dispensary  doctor 
comes.' 

'What  does  your  mother  think  it  is?' 

'Oh,  she  says  it's  a  bad  cold;  but  David  is  n't  strong, you 
know,  so  she's  scared.  I  guess  if  he  gets  worse  I'll  have  to 
stay  home  from  school  to  run  for  the  medicines.' 

'I  hope  not  Bennie.  Now  you'd  better  run  along,  or 
you'll  be  late.' 

'Yes,  ma'am.     Good-bye.' 

'  Will  you  come  again  in  the  morning  and  tell  me  about 
your  brother?' 

'Yes,  ma'am.     Good-bye.  —  Teacher.' 

'Yes,  Bennie?' 

'Do  you  think  you  can  do  something  —  something  — 
about  his  record  ?  David  feels  dreadful  because  he's  broke 
his  record.  He  never  missed  school  before,  you  know.  It's 
—  it's  too  bad  to  see  him  cry.  He's  always  so  quiet,  you 
know,  kind  of  like  grown  people.  He  don't  fight  or  tease 
or  anything.  Do  you  think  you  can,  teacher?' 

Miss  Ralston  was  touched  by  this  tribute  to  her  pupil, 
but  she  could  not  promise  to  mend  the  broken  record. 

'  Tell  David  not  to  worry.  He  has  the  best  record  in  the 
school,  for  attendance  and  everything.  Tell  him  I  said  he 


14  THE  LIE 

must  hurry  and  get  well,  as  we  must  rehearse  our  pieces  for 
Washington's  Birthday.' 

The  next  morning  Bennie  reeled  off  a  longer  story  than 
ever.  He  described  the  doctor's  visit  in  great  detail,  and 
Miss  Ralston  was  relieved  to  gather  that  David's  ailment 
was  nothing  worse  than  grippe;  unless,  as  the  doctor 
warned,  his  run-down  condition  caused  complications.  He 
would  be  in  bed  a  week  or  more,  in  any  case,  *  and  he  ought 
to  sleep  most  of  the  time,  the  doctor  said.' 

'I  guess  the  doctor  don't  know  our  David!'  Bennie 
scoffed.  'He  never  wants  at  all  to  go  to  sleep.  He  reads 
and  reads  when  everybody  goes  to  bed.  One  time  he  was 
reading  all  night,  and  the  lamp  went  out,  and  he  was  afraid 
to  go  downstairs  for  oil,  because  he'd  wake  somebody,  so  he 
lighted  matches  and  read  little  bits.  There  was  a  heap  of 
burned  matches  in  the  morning.' 

'Dear  me!'  exclaimed  Miss  Ralston.  'He  ought  not  to 
do  that.  Your  father  ought  not  — Does  your  father  allow 
him  to  stay  up. nights?' 

'Sure.  My  father's  proud  because  he's  going  to  be  a 
great  man;  a  doctor,  maybe.'  He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
as  if  to  say,  'What  may  not  a  David  become?' 

'David  is  funny,  don't  you  think,  teacher?'  the  boy 
went  on.  'He  asks  such  funny  questions.  What  do  you 
think  he  said  to  the  doctor?' 

'I  can't  imagine.' 

'  Well,  he  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve  when  he  took  out  the 
—  the  thing  he  puts  in  your  mouth,  and  said  kind  of  hoarse, 
"Doctor,  did  you  ever  tell  a  lie?"  Was  n't  that  funny?' 

Miss  Ralston  did  not  answer.  She  was  thinking  that 
David  must  have  been  turning  over  some  problem  in  his 
mind,  to  say  so  much  to  a  stranger, 

'Did  you  give  him  my  message?'  she  asked  finally. 


THE  LIE  15 

*  Yes'm!  I  told  him  about  rehearsing  his  piece  for  Wash 
ington's  Birthday/  Bennie  paused. 

'  Well?' 

'He  acted  so  funny.  He  turned  over  to  the  wall,  and 
cried  and  cried  without  any  noise. ' 

'  The  poor  boy !  He'll  be  dreadfully  disappointed  not  to 
take  his  part  in  the  exercises.' 

Bennie  shook  his  head. 

'That  is  n't  for  what  he  cries/  he  said  oracularly. 

Miss  Ralston's  attentive  silence  invited  further  revela 
tions. 

'He's  worrying  about  something,'  Bennie  brought  out, 
rolling  his  head  ominously. 

'Why?  How  do  you  know?' 

'The  doctor  said  so.  He  told  my  father  downstairs. 
He  said,  "Make  him  tell,  if  you  can,  it  may  help  to  pull 
him  off"  —  no,  "pull  him  up."  That's  what  the  doctor 
said/ 

Miss  Ralston's  thoughts  flew  back  to  her  last  interview 
with  David,  two  days  before,  when  he  had  broken  down  so 
suddenly.  Was  there  a  mystery  there?  She  was  certain 
the  boy  was  overwrought,  and  physically  run  down.  Ap 
parently,  also,  he  had  been  exposed  to  the  weather  during 
the  evening  when  he  was  taken  ill;  Bennie's  chatter  indi 
cated  that  David  had  wandered  in  the  streets  for  hours. 
These  things  would  account  for  the  grippe,  and  for  the  ab 
normal  fever  of  which  Bennie  boasted.  But  what  was 
David  worrying  about  ?  She  resolved  to  go  and  see  the  boy 
in  a  day  or  two,  when  he  was  reported  to  be  more  comfort 
able. 

On  his  next  visit  Bennie  brought  a  message  from  the 
patient  himself. 

'He  said  to  give  you  this,  teacher/  handing  Miss  Ralston 
a  journal.  'It's  yours.  It  has  the  pieces  in  it  for  Wash- 


16  THE  LIE 

ington's  Birthday.  He  said  you  might  need  it,  and  the 
doctor  did  n't  say  when  he  could  go  again  to  school.' 

Miss  Ralston  laid  the  journal  carelessly  on  a  pile 
of  other  papers.  Bennie  balanced  himself  on  one  foot, 
looking  as  if  his  mission  were  not  yet  ended. 

'Well,  Bennie?'  Miss  Ralston  encouraged  him.  She 
was  beginning  to  understand  his  mysterious  airs. 

'David was  awful  careful  about  that  book, 'the  messenger 
said  impressively.  'He  said  over  and  over  not  to  lose  it, 
and  not  to  give  it  to  nobody  only  you.' 


in 

It  was  not  till  the  end  of  the  day  that  Miss  Ralston  took 
up  the  journal  Bennie  had  brought.  She  turned  the  leaves 
absently,  thinking  of  David.  He  would  be  so  disappointed 
to  miss  the  exercises!  And  to  whom  should  she  give  the 
part  of  George  Washington  in  the  dialogue?  She  found 
the  piece  in  the  journal.  A  scrap  of  paper  marked  the 
place.  A  folded  paper.  Folded  several  times.  Miss 
Ralston  opened  out  the  paper  and  found  some  writing. 

'DEAR  TEACHER  Miss  RALSTON, — 

'  I  can't  be  George  Washington  any  more  because  I  have 
lied  to  you.  I  must  not  tell  you  about  what,  because  you 
would  blame  somebody  who  did  n't  do  wrong. 

'  Your  friend, 

'DAVID  RUDINSKY.' 

Again  and  again  Miss  Ralston  read  the  note,  unable  to 
understand  it.  David,  her  David,  whose  soul  was  a  mirror 
for  every  noble  idea,  had  lied  to  her !  What  could  he  mean  ? 
What  had  impelled  him?  Somebody  who  did  n't  do  wrong. 
So  it  was  not  David  alone;  there  was  some  complication 
with  another  person.  She  studied  the  note  word  for 


THE  LIE  17 

and  her  eyes  slowly  filled  with  tears.  If  the  boy  had  really 
lied  —  if  the  whole  thing  were  not  a  chimera  of  his  fevered 
nights  —  then  what  must  he  have  suffered  of  remorse  and 
shame!  Her  heart  went  out  to  him  even  while  her  brain 
was  busy  with  the  mystery. 

She  made  a  swift  resolution.  She  would  go  to  David  at 
once.  She  was  sure  he  would  tell  her  more  than  he  had  writ 
ten,  and  it  would  relieve  his  mind.  She  did  not  dread  the 
possible  disclosures.  Her  knowledge  of  the  boy  made  her 
c  ortain  that  she  would  find  nothing  ignoble  at  the  bottom 
of  his  mystery.  He  was  only  a  child,  after  all  —  an  over 
wrought,  sensitive  child.  No  doubt  he  exaggerated  his 
sin,  if  sin  there  were.  It  was  her  duty  to  go  and  put  him  at 
rest. 

She  knew  that  David's  father  kept  a  candy  shop  in  the 
basement  of  his  tenement,  and  she  had  no  trouble  in  finding 
the  place.  Half  the  children  in  the  neighborhood  escorted 
her  to  the  door,  attracted  by  the  phenomenon  of  a  teacher 
loose  on  their  streets. 

The  tinkle  of  the  shop-bell  brought  Mr.  Rudinsky  from 
the  little  kitchen  in  the  rear. 

'Well,  well!'  he  exclaimed,  shaking  hands  heartily. 
'This  is  a  great  honor  —  a  great  honor.'  He  sounded  the 
initial  h.  *  I  wish  I  had  a  palace  for  you  to  come  in,  ma'am. 
I  don't  think  there  was  such  company  in  this  house  since 
it  was  built.' 

His  tone  was  one  of  genuine  gratification.  Ushering  her 
into  the  kitchen,  he  set  a  chair  for  her,  and  himself  sat  down 
at  a  respectful  distance. 

'  I'm  sorry,'  he  began,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  around  the 
room.  '  Such  company  ought  not  to  sit  in  the  kitchen,  but 
you  see — •' 

He  was  interrupted  by  Bennie,  who  had  clattered  in  at 
visitor's  heels,  panting  for  recognition. 


18  THE  LIE 

'Never  mind,  teacher,'  the  youngster  spoke  up,  'we  got 
a  parlor  upstairs,  with  a  mantelpiece  and  everything,  but 
David  sleeps  up  there  —  the  doctor  said  it's  the  most  air  — 
and  you  dass  n't  wake  him  up  till  he  wakes  himself.' 

Bennie's  father  frowned,  but  the  visitor  smiled  a  cordial 
smile. 

'  I  like  a  friendly  kitchen  like  this,'  she  said  quietly.  '  My 
mother  did  not  keep  any  help  when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  I 
was  a  great  deal  in  the  kitchen.' 

Her  host  showed  his  appreciation  of  her  tact  by  dropping 
the  subject. 

'I'm  sure  you  came  about  David,'  he  said. 

'I  did.     How  is  he?' 

'Pretty  sick,  ma'am.  The  doctor  says  it's  not  the  sick 
ness  so  much,  but  David  is  so  weak  and  small.  He  says 
David  studies  too  much  altogether.  Maybe  he's  right. 
What  do  you  think,  ma'am?' 

Miss  Ralston  answered  remorsefully. 

'I  agree  with  the  doctor.  I  think  we  are  all  to  blame. 
We  push  him  too  much  when  we  ought  to  hold  him  back.' 

Here  Bennie  made  another  raid  on  the  conversation. 

'He's  going  to  be  a  great  man,  a  doctor  maybe.  My 
mother  says  — ' 

Mr.  Rudinsky  did  not  let  him  finish.  He  thought  it  time 
to  insure  the  peace  of  so  important  an  interview. 

'Bennie,'  said  he,  'you  will  go  mind  the  store,  and  keep 
the  kitchen  door  shut.' 

Bennie's  discomfiture  was  evident  in  his  face.  He 
obeyed,  but  not  without  a  murmur. 

'Let  us  make  a  covenant  to  take  better  care  of  David  in 
the  future.' 

Miss  Ralston  was  speaking  when  Mrs.  Rudinsky  ap 
peared  in  the  doorway.  She  was  flushed  from  the  exer 
tions  of  a  hasty  toilet,  for  which  she  had  fled  upstairs  at  the 


THE  LIE  19 

approach  of  'company.'  She  came  forward  timidly,  hold 
ing  out  a  hand  on  which  the  scrubbing  brush  and  the  paring 
knife  had  left  their  respective  marks. 

'How  do  you  do,  ma'am?'  she  said,  cordially,  but  shyly. 
'I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  wish  I  can  speak  English  better, 
I'd  like  to  say  how  proud  I  am  to  see  David's  teacher  in  my 
house.' 

*  Why,  you  speak  wonderfully ! '  Miss  Ralston  exclaimed, 
with  genuine  enthusiasm.  'I  don't  understand, how  you 
pick  up  the  language  in  such  a  short  time.  I  could  n't 
learn  Russian  so  fast,  I'm  sure.' 

'My  husband  makes  us  speak  English  all  the  time,'  Mrs. 
Rudinsky  replied.  'From  the  fust  day  he  said  to  speak 
English.  He  scolds  -the  children  if  he  hears  they  speak 
Jewish.' 

'  Sure,'  put  in  her  husband, '  I  don't  want  my  family  to  be 
greenhorns.' 

Miss  Ralston  turned  a  glowing  face  to  him. 
'Mr.  Rudinsky,  I  think  you've  done  wonders  for  your 
family.  If  all  immigrants  were  like  you,  we  would  n't  need 
any  restriction  laws.'  She  threw  all  possible  emphasis  into 
her  cordial  voice.  'Why,  you're  a  better  American  than 
some  natives  I  know!' 

Mrs.  Rudinsky  sent  her  husband  a  look  of  loving  pride. 

'He  wants  to  be  a  Yankee,'  she  said. 

Her  husband  took  up  the  cue  in  earnest. 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  he  said, '  that's  my  ambition.   When  I  was 

a  young  man,  in  the  old  country,  I  wanted  to  be  a  scholar. 

But  a  Jew  has  no  chance  in  the  old  country;  perhaps  you 

know  how  it  is.     It  was  n't  the  Hebrew  books  I  wanted. 

I  wanted  to  learn  what  the  rest  of  the  world  learned,  but 

a  poor  Jew  had  no  chance  in  Russia.     When  I  got  to 

America,  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  go  to  school.     It  took 

me  all  my  time  and  strength  to  make  a  living  —  I've  never 


20  THE  LIE 

been  much  good  in  business,  ma'am  —  and  when  I  got  my 
family  over,  I  saw  that  it  was  the  children  would  go  to 
school  for  me.  I'm  glad  to  be  a  plain  citizen,  if  my  chil 
dren  will  be  educated  Americans. ' 

People  with  eyes  and  hands  like  Mr.  Rudinsky's  can  say 
a  great  deal  in  a  few  words.  Miss  Ralston  felt  as  if  she  had 
known  him  all  his  life,  and  followed  his  strivings  in  two 
worlds. 

'I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Rudinsky,'  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  *  I  wish  more  of  my  pupils  had  lathers  like  David's.' 

Her  host  changed  the  subject  very  neatly. 

'And  I  wish  the  school  children  had  more  teachers  like 
you.  David  likes  you  so  much.' 

'  Oh,  he  liked  you ! '  the  wife  confirmed.  '  Please  stay  till 
he  veks  up.  He'll  be  sorry  to  missed  your  vis^.' 

While  his  wife  moved  quietly  around  the  stove,  making 
tea,  Mr.  Rudinsky  entertained  their  guest  with  anecdotes 
of  David's  Hebrew-school  days,  and  of  his  vain  efforts  to 
get  at  secular  books. 

'He  was  just  like  me,'  he  said.  'He  wanted  to  learn 
everything.  I  could  n't  afford  a  private  teacher,  and  they 
would  n't  take  him  in  the  public  school.  He  learned  Rus 
sian  all  alone,  and  if  he  got  a  book  from  somewhere  —  a 
history  or  anything  —  he  would  n't  eat  or  drink  till  he  read 
it  all.' 

Mrs.  Rudinsky  often  glanced  at  David's  teacher,  to  see 
how  her  husband's  stories  were  impressing  her.  She  was 
too  shy  with  her  English  to  say  more  than  was  required  of 
her  as  hostess,  but  her  face,  aglow  with  motherly  pride, 
showed  how  she  participated  in  her  husband's  enthusiasm. 

'You  see  yourself,  ma'am,  what  he  is,'  said  David's 
father,  'but  what  could  I  make  of  him  in  Russia?  I  was 
happy  when  he  got  here,  only  it  was  a  little  late.  I  wished 
he  started  in  school  younger.' 


THE  LIE  SI 

'He  has  time  enough,'  said  Miss  Ralston.  'He'll  get 
through  grammar  school  before  he's  fourteen.  He's  twelve 
now,  is  n't  he?' 

'  Yes,  ma'am  —  no,  ma'am !  He's  really  fourteen  now, 
but  I  made  him  out  younger  on  purpose.' 

Miss  Ralston  looked  puzzled.     Mr.  Rudinsky  explained. 

'  You  see,  ma'am,  he  was  twelve  years  when  he  came,  and 
I  wanted  he  should  go  to  school  as  long  as  possible,  so  when 
I  made  his  school  certificate,  I  said  he  was  only  ten.  I  have 
seven  children,  and  David  is  the  oldest  one,  and  I  was 
afraid  he'd  have  to  go  to  work,  if  business  was  bad,  or  if  I 
was  sick.  The  state  is  a  good  father  to  the  children  in 
America,  if  the  real  fathers  don't  mix  in.  Why  should  my 
David  lose  his  chance  to  get  educated  and  be  somebody, 
because  I  am  a  poor  business  man,  and  have  too  many 
children?  So  I  made  out  that  he  had  to  go  to  school  two 
years  more.' 

He  narrated  this  anecdote  in  the  same  simple  manner  in 
which  he  had  told  a  dozen  others.  He  seemed  pleased  to 
rehearse  the  little  plot  whereby  he  had  insured  his  boy's 
education.  As  Miss  Ralston  did  not  make  any  comment 
immediately,  he  went  on,  as  if  sure  of  her  sympathy. 

'I  told  you  I  got  my  citizen  papers  right  away  when  I 
came  to  America.  I  worked  hard  before  I  could  bring  my 
family  —  it  took  me  four  years  to  save  the  money  —  and 
they  found  a  very  poor  home  when  they  got  here,  but  they 
were  citizens  right  away.  But  it  would  n't  do  them  much 
good,  if  they  did  n't  get  educated.  I  found  out  all  about 
the  compulsory  education,  and  I  said  to  myself  that's  the 
policeman  that  will  keep  me  from  robbing  my  David  if  I 
fail  in  business.' 

He  did  not  overestimate  his  visitor's  sympathy.  Miss 
Ralston  followed  his  story  with  quick  appreciation  of  his 
ideals  and  motives,  but  in  her  ingenuous  American  mind 


22  THE  LIE 

one  fact  separated  itself  from  the  others :  namely,  that  Mr. 
Rudinsky  had  falsified  his  boy's  age,  and  had  recorded  the 
falsehood  in  a  public  document.  Her  recognition  of  the 
fact  carried  with  it  no  criticism.  She  realized  that  Mr. 
Rudinsky's  conscience  was  the  product  of  an  environment 
vastly  different  from  hers.  It  was  merely  that  to  her  mind 
the  element  of  deceit  was  something  to  be  accounted  for, 
be  it  ever  so  charitably,  whereas  in  Mr.  Rudinsky's  mind 
it  evidently  had  no  existence  at  all. 

4 So  David  is  really  fourteen  years  old?'  she  repeated 
incredulously.  'Why,  he  seems  too  little  even  for  twelve! 
Does  he  know?  —  Of  course  he  would  know!  I  wonder 
that  he  consented  — * 

She  broke  off,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought.     *  Consented 
to  tell  a  lie'  she  had  meant  to  say,  but  the  unspoken  words 
diverted  her  mind  from  the  conversation.     It  came  upon 
her  in  a  flash  that  she  had  found  the  key  to  David's  mys 
tery.     His  note  was  in  her  pocketbook,  but  she  knew  every 
word  of  it,  and  now  everything  was  plain  to  her.     The  lie 
was  this  lie  about  his  age,  and  the  person  he  wanted  to 
shield  was  his  father.     And  for  that  he  was  suffering  so! 
She  began  to  ask  questions  eagerly. 
'Has  David  said  anything  about  —  about  a  little  trouble 
he  had  in  school  the  day  he  became  ill?' 
Both  parents  showed  concern. 
'Trouble?  what  trouble? ' 

'Oh,  it  was  hardly  trouble  —  at  least,  I  could  n't  tell  my 
self/ 

'David  is  so  hard  to  understand  sometimes,'  his  father 
said. 

'Oh,  I  don't  think  so!'  the  teacher  cried.  'Not  when 
you  make  friends  with  him.  He  does  n't  say  much,  it's 
true,  but  his  heart  is  like  a  crystal.' 

'He's  too  still,'  the  mother  insisted,  shaking  her  head. 


THE  LIE  23 

*  All  the  time  he's  sick,  he  don't  say  anything,  only  when 
we  ask  him  something.  The  doctor  thinks  he's  worrying 
about  something,  but  he  don't  tell.' 

The  mother  sighed,  but  Miss  Ralston  cut  short  her  re 
flections. 

'Mrs.  Rudinsky  —  Mr.  Rudinsky,'  she  began  eagerly, 
*7  can  tell  you  what  David's  troubled  about.' 

Ajid  she  told  them  the  story  of  her  last  talk  with  David, 
and  finally  read  them  his  note. 

4  And  this  lie,'  she  ended,  'you  know  what  it  is,  don't  you? 
You've  just  told  me  yourself,  Mr.  Rudinsky/ 

She  looked  pleadingly  at  him,  longing  to  have  him  under 
stand  David's  mind  as  she  understood  it.  But  Mr.  Rudin 
sky  was  very  slow  to  grasp  the  point. 

'  You  mean — about  the  certificate ?    Because  I  made  out 
that  he  was  younger?' 
Miss  Ralston  nodded. 

'You  know  David  has  such  a  sense  of  honor,'  she  ex 
plained,  speaking  slowly,  embarrassed  by  the  effort  of  fol 
lowing  Mr.  Rudinsky's  train  of  thought  and  her  own  at  the 
same  time.  'You  know  how  he  questions  everything- 
sooner  or  later  he  makes  everything  clear  to  himself  —  and 
something  must  have  started  him  thinking  of  this  old  mat 
ter  lately  —  Why,  of  course!  I  remember  I  asked  him  his 
age  that  day,  when  he  tried  on  the  costume,  and  he  an 
swered  as  usual,  and  then,  I  suppose,  he  suddenly  real 
ized  what  he  was  saying.  I  don't  believe  he  ever  thought 
about  it  since  —  since  you  arranged  it  so,  and  now,  all  of  a 
sudden  —  ' 

She  did  not  finish,  because  she  saw  that  her  listeners  did 
not  follow  her.     Both  their  faces  expressed  pain  and  per 
plexity.     After  a  long  silence,  David's  father  spoke. 
'And  what  do  you  think,  ma'am?' 
Miss  Ralston  was  touched  by  the  undertone  of  submis- 


24  THE  LIE 

sion  in  his  voice.  Her  swift  sympathy  had  taken  her  far 
into  his  thoughts.  She  recognized  in  his  story  one  of  those 
ethical  paradoxes  which  the  helpless  Jews  of  the  Pale,  in 
their  search  for  a  weapon  that  their  oppressors  could  not 
confiscate,  have  evolved  for  their  self-defence.  She  knew 
that  to  many  honest  Jewish  minds  a  lie  was  not  a  lie  when 
told  to  an  official;  and  she  divined  that  no  ghost  of  a  scru 
ple  had  disturbed  Mr.  Rudinsky  in  his  sense  of  triumph 
over  circumstances,  when  he  invented  the  lie  that  was  to 
insure  the  education  of  his  gifted  child.  With  David,  of 
course,  the  same  philosophy  had  been  valid.  His  father's 
plan  for  the  protection  of  his  future,  hingeing  on  a  too  fa 
miliar  sophistry,  had  dropped  innocuous  into  his  conscious 
ness,  until,  in  a  moment  of  spiritual  sensitiveness,  it  took 
on  the  visage  of  sin. 

'And  what  do  you  think,  ma'am?' 

David's  father  did  not  have  to  wait  a  moment  for  her 
answer,  so  readily  did  her  insight  come  to  his  defense.  In 
a  few  eager  sentences  she  made  him  feel  that  she  under 
stood  perfectly,  and  understood  David  perfectly. 

'I  respect  you  the  more  for  that  lie,  Mr.  Rudinsky.  It 
was  —  a  noble  lie!'  There  was  the  least  tremor  in  her 
voice.  'And  I  love  David  for  the  way  he  sees  it.' 

Mr.  Rudinsky  got  up  and  paced  slowly  across  the  room. 
Then  he  stopped  before  Miss  Ralston. 

'You  are  very  kind  to  talk  like  that,  Miss  Ralston,'  he 
said,  with  peculiar  dignity.  '  You  see  the  whole  thing.  In 
the  old  country  we  had  to  do  such  things  so  many  times 
that  we  —  got  used  to  them.  Here  —  here  we  don't  have 
to.'  His  voice  took  on  a  musing  quality.  'But  we  don't 
see  it  right  away  when  we  get  here.  I  meant  nothing,  only 
just  to  keep  my  boy  in  school.  It  was  not  to  cheat  any 
body.  The  state  is  willing  to  educate  the  children.  I  said 
to  myself  I  will  tie  my  own  hands,  so  that  I  can't  pull  my 


THE  LIE  25 

child  after  me  if  I  drown.     I  did  want  my  David  should 
have  the  best  chance  in  America.' 

Miss  Ralston  was  thrilled  by  the  suppressed  passion  in 
his  voice.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  saying  again,  in 
the  low  tones  that  come  from  the  heart,  *  I  am  glad  I  know 
you,  Mr.  Rudinsky.' 

There  was  unconscious  chivalry  in  Mr.  Rudinsky's  next 
words.  Stepping  to  his  wife's  side,  he  laid  a  gentle  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  and  said  quietly,  *  My  wife  has  been  my 
helper  in  everything.' 

Miss  Ralston,  as  we  know,  was  given  to  seeing  things. 
She  saw  now,  not  a  poor  immigrant  couple  in  the  first  stage 
of  American  respectability,  which  was  all  there  was  in  the 
room  to  see,  but  a  phantom  procession  of  men  with  the  faces 
of  prophets,  muffled  in  striped  praying-shawls,  and  women 
radiant  in  the  light  of  many  candles,  and  youths  and  maid 
ens  with  smouldering  depths  in  their  eyes,  and  silent  chil 
dren  who  pushed  away  joyous  things  for  —  for  — 

Dreams  don't  use  up  much  time.  Mr.  Rudinsky  was 
not  aware  that  there  had  been  a  pause  before  he  spoke  again. 

*  You  understand  so  well,  Miss  Ralston.     But  David '  - 
he  hesitated  a  moment,  then  finished  quickly.     'How  can 
he  respect  me  if  he  feels  like  that?' 

His  wife  spoke  tremulously  from  her  corner. 

'That's  what  I  think.' 

'Oh,  don't  think  that!'  Miss  Ralston  cried.  'He  does 
respect  you  —  he  understands.  Don't  you  see  what  he 
says :  /  can't  tell  you  — •  because  you  would  blame  somebody 
who  did  n't  do  wrong.  He  does  n't  blame  you.  He  only 
blames  himself.  He's  afraid  to  tell  me  because  he  thinks 
/  can't  understand.' 

The  teacher  laughed  a  happy  little  laugh.  In  her  eager 
ness  to  comfort  David's  parents,  she  said  just  the  right 
things,  and  every  word  summed  up  an  instantaneous  dis- 


26  THE  LIE 

co very.  One  of  her  useful  gifts  was  the  ability  to  find  out 
truths  just  when  she  desperately  needed  them.  There  are 
people  like  that,  and  some  of  them  are  school-teachers  hired 
by  the  year.  When  David's  father  cried,  *  How  can  he  re 
spect  me?'  Miss  Ralston's  heart  was  frightened  while  it 
beat  one  beat.  Only  one.  Then  she  knew  all  David's 
thoughts  between  the  terrible,  *I  have  lied,'  and  the  gen 
erous,  '  But  my  father  did  no  wrong.  She  guessed  what  the 
struggle  had  cost  to  reconcile  the  contradictions;  she  im 
agined  his  bewilderment  as  he  tried  to  rule  himself  by  his 
new-found  standards,  while  seeking  excuses  for  his  father 
in  the  one  he  cast  away  from  him  as  unworthy  of  an  Ameri 
can.  Problems  like  David's  are  not  very  common,  but 
then  Miss  Ralston  was  good  at  guessing. 

*  Don't  worry,  Mr.  Rudinsky,'  she  said,  looking  out  of 
her  glad  eyes.     '  And  you,  Mrs.  Rudinsky,  don't  think  for  a 
moment  that  David  does  n't  understand.     He's  had  a  bad 
time,  the  poor  boy,  but  I  know  —  Oh,  I  must  speak  to  him ! 
Will  he  wake  soon,  do  you  think?' 

Mr.  Rudinsky  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

*It's  all  right,'  said  David's  mother,  in  reply  to  an  anx 
ious  look  from  Miss  Ralston.  *  He  sleeps  already  the  whole 
afternoon.' 

It  had  grown  almost  dark  while  they  talked.  Mrs.  Ru 
dinsky  now  lighted  the  lamps,  apologizing  to  her  guest  for 
not  having  done  so  sooner,  and  then  she  released  Bennie 
from  his  prolonged  attendance  in  the  store. 

Bennie  came  into  the  kitchen  chewing  his  reward,  some 
very  gummy  confection.  He  was  obliged  to  look  the  pent- 
up  things  he  wanted  to  say,  until  such  time  as  he  could  clear 
his  clogged  talking-gear. 

*  Teacher,'  he  began,  before  he  had  finished  swallowing, 
'What  for  did  you  say  — ' 


THE  LIE  27 

'Bennie!'  his  mother  reproved  him,  'You  must  shame 
yourself  to  listen  by  the  door.' 

'Well,  there  was  n't  any  trade,  ma,'  he  defended  himself, 
'only  Bessie  Katz,  and  she  brought  back  the  peppermints 
she  bought  this  morning,  to  change  them  for  taffy,  but  I 
did  n't  because  they  were  all  dirty,  and  one  was  broken  — ' 

Bennie  never  had  a  chance  to  bring  his  speeches  to  a 
voluntary  stop:  somebody  always  interrupted.  This  time 
it  was  his  father,  who  came  down  the  stairs,  looking  so 
grave  that  even  Bennie  was  impressed. 

'He's  awake,'  said  Mr.  Rudinsky.  'I  lighted  the  lamp. 
Will  you  please  come  up,  ma'am?' 

He  showed  her  to  the  room  where  David  lay,  and  closed 
the  door  on  them  both.  It  was  not  he,  but  Miss  Ralston, 
the  American  teacher,  that  his  boy  needed.  He  went  softly 
down  to  the  kitchen,  where  his  wife  smiled  at  him  through 
unnecessary  tears. 

Miss  Ralston  never  forgot  the  next  hour,  and  David 
never  forgot.  The  woman  always  remembered  how  the 
boy's  eyes  burned  through  the  dusk  of  the  shadowed  corner 
where  he  lay.  The  boy  remembered  how  his  teacher's 
voice  palpitated  in  his  heart,  how  her  cool  hands  rested  on 
his,  how  the  lamplight  made  a  halo  out  of  her  hair.  To 
each  of  them  the  dim  room  with  its  scant  furnishings  be 
came  a  spiritual  rendezvous. 

What  did  the  woman  say,  that  drew  the  sting  of  remorse 
from  the  child's  heart,  without  robbing  him  of  the  bloom  of 
his  idealism?  What  did  she  tell  him  that  transmuted  the 
offense  of  ages  into  the  marrow  and  blood  of  persecuted 
virtue?  How  did  she  weld  in  the  boy's  consciousness  the 
scraps  of  his  mixed  inheritance,  so  that  he  saw  his  whole 
experience  as  an  unbroken  thing  at  last?  There  was  no 
body  to  report  how  it  was  done.  The  woman  did  not  know 
nor  the  child.  It  was  a  secret  born  of  the  boy's  need  and 


28  THE  LIE 

the  woman's  longing  to  serve  him;  just  as  in  nature  every 
want  creates  its  satisfaction. 

When  she  was  ready  to  leave  him,  Miss  Ralston  knelt  for 
a  moment  at  David's  bedside,  and  once  more  took  his  small 
hot  hands  in  hers. 

*  And  I  have  made  a  discovery,  David,'  she  said,  smiling 
in  a  way  of  her  own.  *  Talking  with  your  parents  down 
stairs  I  saw  why  it  was  that  the  Russian  Jews  are  so  soon  at 
home  here  in  our  dear  country.  In  the  hearts  of  men  like 
your  father,  dear,  is  the  true  America. ' 


BLUE  REEFERS 

BY   ELIZABETH    ASHE 

*  THE  child  will  have  to  have  a  new  dress  if  she  's  to  take 
part  in  the  Christmas  entertainment.' 

My  mother  spoke  very  low,  so  as  not  to  wake  me,  but  I 
heard  her.  I  had  been  too  excited  to  fall  asleep. 

'Of  course/  said  my  father  in  his  big  voice  that  never 
could  get  down  to  a  whisper. 

'S-sh,'  warned  my  mother;  and  then  added,  'But  we 
should  n't  get  it,  George.  You  know  what  the  last  doctor's 
bill  amounted  to.' 

'Oh,  let  the  little  thing  have  it.  It 's  her  first  chance  to 
show  off.' 

'  S-sh, 'f  my  mother  warned  again.  After  a  moment  I 
heard  her  say,  'Well,  perhaps  it  won't  cost  so  very  much, 
and  as  you  say  it 's  the  first  time.' 

I  turned  over  in  bed  and  prayed, '  Dear  Lord,  please  help 
my  mother  to  get  me  a  new  dress.'  For  a  new  dress  was 
one  of  the  chief  joys  of  taking  part,  and  I  had  longed  so  to 
take  part. 

Although  I  had  been  a  member  of  our  Sunday  school  in 
good  and  regular  standing  ever  since  I  was  three  weeks  old, 
and  had  been  put  on  the  Cradle  Roll,  that  being  in  the 
eyes/  of  my  parents  the  nearest  approach  to  dedication  al 
lowable  to  Baptists,  I  was  taking  part  for  the  first  time, 
and  I  was  seven.  There  had  been  numerous  occasions  in 
these  seven  years  for  taking  part :  our  Sunday  school  cele 
brated  Easter,  Children's  Day,  Anniversary  Day,  Thanks 
giving,  and  Christmas,  with  quite  appropriate  exercises. 
But  it  was  a  large  school,  and  I  had  freckles  and  what 


30  BLUE  REEFERS 

Aunt  Emma,  my  cousin  Luella's  mother,  called  *  that  child's 
jaw.'  Aunt  Emma  meant  my  front  teeth,  which  were  really 
most  dreadfully  prominent :  in  fact  they  stuck  out  to  such 
an  extent  that  Aunt  Emma  seldom  failed  to  see  them  when 
she  saw  me. 

Aunt  Emma  was  n't  used  to  children  with  jaws.  Her 
little  Luella  had  the  prettiest  teeth  imaginable:  she  was 
pretty  all  over,  pretty  golden  hair,  pretty  blue  eyes,  pretty 
pink  cheeks,  —  not  a  freckle,  —  and  pretty  arms  very 
plump  and  white.  She  was  just  my  age,  and  she  was 
invariably  asked  to  take  part.  It  seemed  reasonable  that 
she  should,  and  yet  I  felt  that  if  they  only  knew  that  I 
had  a  mind,  —  a  mind  was  what  an  uncle  once  said  I  had, 
after  hearing  me  recite  the  one  hundred  and  third  Psalm, 
the  fifty-second  chapter  of  Isaiah,  and  the  thirteenth  chap 
ter  of  First  Corinthians,  with  only  one  mistake,  —  they 
would  ask  me  too.  A  mind  should  count  for  something,  I 
thought,  but  it  did  n't  seem  to  with  Miss  Miriam. 

Miss  Miriam  was  the  assistant  superintendent.  She  was 
a  tall,  thin,  youngish-looking  woman,  with  fair  hair  and  a 
sweet,  rather  white  face.  She  always  wore  very  black 
dresses  and  a  little  gold  cross,  which  one  of  the  Big  Girls 
told  us  was  left  to  her  by  her  mother,  who  was  an  Epis 
copalian.  Miss  Miriam  got  up  all  the  entertainments,  and 
it  was  she  who  made  out  the  list  of  the  people  who  were  to 
take  part  in  them.  Three  or  four  Sundays  before  an  enter 
tainment  was  to  be  given,  Miss  Miriam  would  come  from 
the  Big  Room  to  our  Primary  Department  with  a  lot  of 
little  white  slips  in  her  hand  and  a  pad  and  pencil.  While 
we  were  having  the  closing  exercises,  she  would  walk  very 
quietly  from  class  to  class  distributing  the  little  white  slips. 
The  slips  said, '  Please  meet  me  after  Sunday  school  in  the 
Ladies'  Parlor.'  If  you  were  given  a  slip,  it  meant  you  were 
chosen  to  take  part. 


BLUE  REEFERS  31 

Once  I  confided  my  longing  to  my  mother. 

'What  makes  you  want  to  so  much,  Martha?  You're 
not  a  forward  little  girl,  I  hope.' 

Forwardness  in  my  elders'  opinion  was  the  Eighth 
Deadly  Sin,  to  be  abhorred  by  all  little  girls,  especially 
those  who  had  heard  it  said  that  they  had  a  mind.  Little 
girls  who  had  heard  that  might  so  easily,  from  sheer  pride 
of  intellect,  become  'forward.' 

'I'm  not  forward,'  I  assured  her.  'I — I,  oh,  mother, 
it 's  so  nice  to  be  in  things.' 

And  now  at  last  I  was  in  things.  I  could  still  feel  the 
touch  of  the  white  slip  which  had  been  put  into  my  hand 
only  that  afternoon;  and  I  turned  over  in  my  bed  on  my 
other  side  and  prayed  with  even  more  fervor. 

'O  Lord,  please  help  my  mother  to  get  me  a  new  dress.' 

He  did.  A  week  later  my  mother  went  to  town.  She 
brought  back  white  Persian  lawn,  the  softest,  sheerest 
stuff  I  had  ever  felt.  I  could  see  the  pink  of  my  skin  through 
it  when  I  laid  it  over  my  hand. 

'I'm  going  to  have  a  new  dress  for  the  entertainment,' 
I  told  Luella  on  my  way  to  rehearsal.  'Are  you?' 

'Why,  of  course.  I  always  do.  Mine 's  going  to  have  five 
rows  of  lace  insertion  in  the  skirt  and  tiny  tucks  too.' 

'  Mine 's  to  have  tucks,  but  it  won't  have  but  one  row  of 
lace  in  the  skirt.  Mother  says  little  girls'  dresses  don't  need 
much  lace.' 

'I  like  lots  of  lace,'  said  Luella;  but  her  tone  of  finality 
did  not  disturb  my  happiness.  I  was  disturbed  only  when, 
at  another  rehearsal,  Luella  told  me  that  her  mother  was 
making  a  blue-silk  slip  to  wear  under  her  white  dress. 
Almost  everyone  wore  slips  when  they  spoke  pieces. 

I  gave  my  mother  this  information. 

'Is  n't  the  white  dress  pretty  enough,  Martha?' 

I  fingered  the  soft  material  she  was  sewing.   'It 's  beau- 


32  BLUE  REEFERS 

tiful,'  I  said,  hiding  my  face  in  her  neck.  Then  I  whispered, 
*I  don't  mind  if  Luella  has  a  slip,  mother.' 

I  did  mind,  but  I  knew  I  ought  n't. 

My  mother  raised  my  head  and  adjusted  the  bow  on  one 
of  my  skimpy  little  pigtails.  She  looked  as  she  did  some 
times  after  my  Aunt  Emma  had  just  gone. 

*  We  '11  see  if  you  can  have  a  slip.  What  color  would  you 
like  —  supposing  you  can? ' 

'Pink,'  I  answered  promptly,  'like  my  best  hair-ribbons/ 

Pink  china  silk  was  bought.  When  I  tried  it  under  the 
Persian  lawn  it  matched  the  ribbons  exactly.  I  jiggled  up 
and  down  on  my  toes  —  my  only  way  of  expressing  great 
joy. 

The  dress,  when  my  mother  was  not  working  on  it,  lay 
in  the  spare  room  on  the  bed.  I  made  countless  pilgrimages 
to  the  spare  room.  Once  I  slipped  the  dress  on  by  myself. 
I  wanted  to  see  how  I  looked.  But  the  mirror  of  the  spare- 
room  bureau  was  very  small;  so  I  inserted  a  hair-brush. 
With  the  mirror  tipped  I  could  see  quite  all  of  me  —  only 
I  did  n't  see  quite  all.  I  did  n't  see  my  freckles,  or  my  jaw, 
or  my  very  thin  legs.  I  saw  a  glory  of  pink  and  white,  and 
I  grinned  from  sheer  rapture. 

The  spare  room  had  no  heat:  there  was  a  register,  but 
unless  we  had  company  the  register  was  closed.  My 
mother  found  me  one  day  kneeling  by  the  bed,  shivering, 
but  in  ecstatic  contemplation  of  my  dress,  which  I  had  not 
dared  to  try  on  a  second  time.  She  gave  me  ginger  tea.  I 
gulped  it  down  meekly.  I  felt  even  then  that  as  a  punish 
ment  ginger  tea  is  exquisitely  relevant.  It  chastens  the 
soul  but  at  the  same  time  it  warms  the  stomach  you've 
allowed  to  get  cold. 

I  had  been  very  much  afraid  that  before  the  night  of  the 
entertainment,  —  it  was  to  be  given  the  twenty-third  of 
December,  —  something  would  surely  happen  to  my  dress 


BLUE  REEFERS  S3 

or  to  me;  but  the  night  arrived  and  both  were  in  a  perfect 
state  of  preservation.  To  expedite  matters,  as  the  Sunday 
school  was  to  assemble  at  a  quarter  past  seven,  my  mother 
dressed  me  before  supper.  Just  as  the  last  button  was  fas 
tened,  we  heard  footsteps  on  the  front  porch. 

*  There,  Martha!  Go  show  your  father.' 

I  ran  down  into  the  hall  and  took  up  my  position  in  the 
centre  of  it;  but  when  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  latch  of 
the  inside  door  I  wanted  to  run  away  and  hide.  I  had 
never  felt  so  beautiful. 

My  father  stopped  short  when  he  saw  me.  'By  the 
Lord ! '  he  ejaculated. 

*  Why,  George!' 

My  mother  was  on  the  stairs. 

*  Well,  by  the  Great  Guns  then  —  you  're  a  —  a  vision, 
iMarty.'     I  could  only  grin. 

'Here's  some  more  pinkness  for  you  to  wear,'  he  said, 
producing  a  long  tissue-paper  package  that  he  had  been 
holding  behind  his  back.  He  chuckled  as  he  unwrapped  it. 
'Twelve,  Marty;  twelve  solid  pink  carnations.  What  do 
you  say  to  'em?  Show  your  mother.' 

I  said  nothing.  I  only  jiggled  on  my  toes. 

*  George,  dear,  what  made  you?  A  little  child  like  that 
can't  wear  flowers  —  and  they  're  seventy -five  cents  a 
dozen ! ' 

All  the  chuckle  went  out  of  my  father's  eyes :  he  looked 
at  me,  then  at  the  carnations,  then  at  my  mother,  just  like 
a  little  boy  who  finds  that  after  all  he's  done  the  wrong 
thing.  I  wanted  to  run  and  take  his  hand;  but  while  I 
stood,  wanting  and  not  daring,  my  mother  had  crossed  the 
hall  and  was  putting  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

'They  're  beautiful,  George  dear.  She  can  wear  three  or 
four  of  them,  anyway.  They  will  make  her  so  happy,  and 
the  rest  we'll  put  in  her  room.  Her  room  is  pink  too.' 

4 


34  BLUE  REEFERS 

*  So  it  is.'  He  kissed  my  mother  and  then  me.  *  Say  your 
piece,  Marty  —  quick!  Before  we  have  supper/ 

I  had  learned  my  piece  so  thoroughly  that  the  order  was 
like  turning  on  a  spigot.  Four  verses,  four  lines  in  each, 
gushed  forth. 

My  father  clapped.  'Now  for  something  to  eat,'  he  said. 

Immediately  after  supper  my  mother  and  I  set  out,  leav 
ing  my  father  to  shave  and  come  later.  It  was  a  cold  night 
with  a  great  many  bright  stars.  At  the  corner  we  met 
Luella  and  her  mother.  Luella's  mother  was  carrying  over 
her  arm  Luella's  spring  coat,  her  everyday  one,  a  dark  blue 
reefer. 

*  Martha  ought  to  have  hers  along,  too,'  said  my  Aunt 
Emma.   'If  the  church  should  be  chilly  they'll  catch  their 
death  sitting  in  thin  dresses.' 

My  mother  thought  it  was  probable  we  would.  So  I  was 
sent  back  to  hunt  for  my  little  reefer.  It  was  like  Luella's, 
dark  blue  with  tarnished  gilt  anchors  on  the  corners  of  the 
sailor  collar,  and  like  hers  it  was  second-best  and  out 
grown. 

Luella  and  I  parted  with  our  mothers  at  the  door  of  the 
Sunday  school  room. 

'Don't  forget  to  take  your  reefers  when  you  march  in,' 
admonished  my  Aunt  Emma. 

'Must  we  carry  them  while  we  march?'  I  almost  wailed. 

My  mother  came  to  the  rescue.  'Hold  them  down  be 
tween  you  and  the  little  girl  you  march  with.  Then  no  one 
will  see.' 

'Yes'm.'  I  was  much  relieved. 

The  Sunday  school  was  a  hubbub  of  noise  and  pink  and 
blue  hair-ribbons.  In  among  the  ribbons,  and  responsible 
for  some  of  the  noise,  were  close-cropped  heads  and  white 
collars  and  very  new  ties,  but  you  did  n't  notice  them 
much.  There  were  so  many  pink  and  blue  ribbons.  After 


BLUE   REEFERS  35 

a  while  the  room  quieted  down  and  we  formed  in  line.  Miss 
Miriam,  who  even  that  night  wore  a  black  dress  and  her 
little  gold  cross,  distributed  among  us  the  eight  silk  ban 
ners  which,  when  we  were  n't  marching,  always  hung  on 
the  walls  of  the  Sunday  school  rooms.  There  were  subdued 
whispers  and  last  prinkings.  Then  the  piano,  which  had 
been  moved  into  the  church,  gave  the  signal  and  we 
marched  in. 

We  marched  with  our  banners  and  our  pink  and  blue 
hair-ribbons  up  and  down  the  aisles  so  that  all  the  Mothers- 
and-Fathers-and-Friends-of-the-School  could  see  us.  When 
ever  we  recognized  our  own  special  mother  or  father,  we 
beamed.  The  marching  finally  brought  us  to  the  pews  as 
signed  to  our  respective  classes.  Luella's  class  and  mine 
were  to  sit  together  that  night.  I  turned  round  —  almost 
every  little  girl,  after  she  was  seated  and  had  sufficiently 
smoothed  out  skirts  and  sash,  turned  round  —  and  saw 
that  my  mother  and  aunt  were  only  two  pews  behind  us. 
I  grinned  delightedly  at  them,  and  they  both  nodded  back. 
Then  I  told  Luella.  After  that  I  settled  down. 

The  church  was  decorated  with  ropes  of  green  and  with 
holly  wreaths.  At  either  side  of  the  platform  was  a  Christ 
mas  tree  with  bits  of  cotton-batting  scattered  over  it  to 
represent  snow.  I  had  heard  that  there  were  to  be  two 
Christmas  trees,  and  I  had  looked  forward  to  a  dazzling 
glitter  of  colored  balls  and  tinsel  and  candles,  maybe.  The 
cotton-batting  was  a  little  disappointing.  It  made  you  feel 
that  it  was  not  a  real  Christmas  tree,  but  just  a  church 
Christmas  tree.  Church  things  were  seldom  real.  The 
Boys  Brigade  of  our  church  carried  interesting-looking  car 
tridge-boxes,  that  made  them  look  like  real  soldiers;  but 
when  they  drilled  you  found  out  that  the  cartridge-boxes 
were  only  make-believe.  They  held  Bibles.  Still,  the  cot 
ton-batting  did  make  you  think  of  snow 


36  BLUE  REEFERS 

After  what  seemed  like  a  very  long  wait  the  entertain 
ment  began.  The  minister,  of  course,  opened  it  with 
prayer.  Then  we  all  sang  a  carol.  As  we  were  sitting  down 
I  felt  some  one  poke  my  shoulder. 

'Your  mother  says  you  must  put  on  your  jacket.  She 
says  you'll  take  cold/  whispered  the  little  girl  behind  me. 

I  had  not  felt  cold,  but  the  command  passed  along  over 
two  church  pews  had  the  force  of  a  Thus-saith-the-Lord. 
While  I  was  slipping  the  jacket  carefully  over  my  ruffles, 
some  one  poked  Luella  and  whispered  to  her.  Luella  looked 
at  me,  then  put  on  her  jacket. 

The  superintendent  was  making  a  speech  to  the  Fathers- 
and-Mothers-and-Friends-of-the-School.  When  he  finished, 
we  rose  to  sing  another  carol,  and  as  we  rose,  quite  auto 
matically  Luella  and  I  slipped  off  our  jackets.  I  was  very 
excited.  After  the  carol  there  would  be  a  piece  by  one  of 
the  Big  Girls;  then  the  Infant  Class  would  do  something; 
then  I  was  to  speak.  I  wondered  if  people  would  see  the 
pink  of  my  slip  showing  through  my  dress  as  I  spoke  my 
piece.  I  bent  my  head  to  get  a  whiff  of  carnation. 

We  were  just  seated  when  there  came  another  poke  and 
another  whisper. 

'Your  mother  says  to  keep  on  your  jacket. 

I  looked  back  at  my  mother.  She  smiled  and  nodded, 
and  Aunt  Emma  pointed  to  Luella.  We  put  on  our  jackets 
again.  This  time  I  buttoned  it  tight ;  so  did  Luella.  I  felt 
the  carnations  remonstrate,  but  when  one  is  very  excited 
one  is  very  obedient:  one  obeys  more  than  the  letter  of 
the  law. 

The  Big  Girl  was  speaking  her  piece.  I  did  n't  hear  the 
words;  the  words  of  my  own  piece  were  saying  themselves 
through  my  head;  but  I  was  aware  that  she  stopped  sud 
denly,  that  she  looked  as  though  she  were  trying  to  remem 
ber,  that  someone  prompted  her,  that  she  went  on.  Sup- 


BLUE  REEFERS  37 

pose  I  should  forget  that  way,  before  my  father  and  mother 
and  the  friends  of  the  school  and  Miss  Miriam!  It  was  a 
dreadful  thought.  I  commenced  again,  —  with  my  eyes 
shut,  — 

'  Some  children  think  that  Christmas  day 
Should  come  two  times  a  year.' 

I  went  through  my  verses  five  times,  while  the  Infant  Class 
individually  and  collectively  were  holding  up  gilt  card 
board  bells  and  singing  about  them.  I  was  beginning  the 
sixth  time,  — 

'  Some  children  think,  —  ' 

when  the  superintendent  read  out,  — 

'The  next  number  on  the  programme  will  be  a  recitation 
by  Martha  Smith.' 

I  had  been  expecting  this  announcement  for  four  weeks, 
but  now  that  it  came,  it  gave  me  a  queer  feeling  in  my 
heart  and  stomach,  half -fear,  half -joy.  Conscious  only  that 
I  was  actually  taking  part,  I  rose  from  my  seat  and  made 
my  way  over  the  little  girls  in  the  pew,  who  scrunched  up 
themselves  and  their  dresses  into  a  small  space  so  that  I 
might  pass. 

As  I  started  down  the  aisle  I  thought  I  heard  my  name 
frantically  called  behind  me;  but  not  dreaming  that  any 
one  would  wish  to  have  speech  with  a  person  about  to  speak 
a  piece,  I  kept  on  down,  way,  way  down  to  the  platform, 
walking  in  a  dim  hot  maze  which  smelled  insistently  of 
carnations. 

But  the  poor  carnations  warned  in  vain.  I  ascended  the 
platform  steps  with  my  reefer  still  buttoned  tightly  over 
my  chest. 

The  reefer,  as  I  have  said,  was  dark  blue,  adorned  with 
tarnished  anchors,  and  outgrown.  Being  outgrown,  it 
showed  several  inches  of  my  thin  little  wrists,  and  being  a 


38  BLUE   REEFERS 

reefer  and  tightly  buttoned,  it  showed  of  my  pink  and 
white  glory  a  little  more  than  the  hem. 

Still  in  that  dim  hot  maze,  I  made  my  bow  and  gave  the 
title  of  my  piece,  *  Christmas  Twice  a  Year/  and  recited  it 
from  beginning  to  end,  and  heard  them  clap,  all  the  teach 
ers  and  scholars  and  Fathers-and-Mothers-and-Friends-of- 
the-School.  Then,  quite  dizzied  with  happiness,  I  hurried 
down  off  the  platform  and  up  the  aisle.  People  smiled  as  I 
passed  them  and  I  smiled  back,  for  once  quite  unconscious 
of  my  jaw.  As  I  neared  my  seat  I  prepared  to  smile  upon 
my  mother,  but  for  a  moment  she  did  n't  see  me.  Aunt 
Emma  was  saying  something  to  her,  something  that  I 
did  n't  hear,  something  that  made  two  red  spots  flame  in 
my  mother's  face. 

'Is  n't  it  just  like  Martha  to  be  a  little  fool!  She 's  al 
ways  doing  things  like  that.' 

Aunt  Emma  was  one  of  those  people  who  assume  that 
you  always  do  the  particular  foolish  thing  you  have  just 
finished  doing. 

The  red  spots  died  out  when  my  mother  saw  me.  She 
smiled  as  though  she  were  very  proud  —  and  I  was  proud 
too.  But  before  I  could  settle  down  to  enjoy  my  satisfac 
tion,  Luella's  name  had  been  called  and  Luella  was  starting 
down  the  aisle.  Luella's  golden  curls  bobbed  as  she  walked : 
they  bobbed  over  her  blue  reefer  jacket  which  was  buttoned 
snugly  over  her  plump  body. 

There  was  a  suppressed  exclamation  from  some  one  be 
hind  me,  but  Luella  kept  on.  Luella's  jacket  was  not  short 
in  the  sleeves,  but  it  was  very  very  tight.  Only  the  hem  of 
her  blue  and  white  glory  peeped  from  beneath  it,  and  a 
little  piece  of  ruffle  she  had  not  quite  tucked  in  peeped  out 
from  above  it. 

Luella  bowed  and  spoke  her  piece.  All  the  teachers  and 
scholars,  all  the  Fathers-and-Mothers-and-Friends-of-the- 
School  applauded. 


BLUE  REEFERS  39 

A  queer  sound  made  me  look  round  at  my  mother  and 
aunt.  Their  heads  were  bowed  upon  the  pew  in  front. 
Their  shoulders  were  shaking.  When  I  turned  around  again 
they  were  sitting  up,  wiping  their  eyes  as  if  they  had  been 
crying. 

I  could  not  understand  then,  nor  did  I  understand  late 
that  night  when  my  father's  laugh  woke  me  up. 

'  Poor  Emma ! '  he  chuckled.  '  What  did  she  say  ?  * 

And  my  mother  answered,  her  voice  curiously  smothered, 
*  Why,  you  see,  she  could  n't  very  well  say  anything  after 
what  she  had  just  said  before.' 

'I  suppose  not.    Poor  Emma,  I  suppose  not.' 

My  father's  laugh  broke  out  again. 

'S-sh,  George  —  you'll  wake  Martha.' 


THE  DEBT 

BY    KATHLEEN   CARMAN 

THE  convent  was  a  large  square  building  of  red  brick, 
harsh  of  outline,  unlovely  in  its  proportions.  It  stood  on 
the  rise  of  a  barren  hill,  unfriended  by  the  trees  of  the  little 
valley  below,  unsoftened  by  the  pleasant  landscape  above 
which  its  ugly  bulk  arose,  stern  and  domineering.  To  the 
south  and  west  lay  fertile  fields  and  huddling  farm-build 
ings;  to  the  east,  beyond  the  little  valley,  rose  many  closely 
wooded  hills;  while  to  the  north,  —  ah,  the  north !  —  one  of 
the  greatest  wonders  of  all  this  wonderful  world  lay  there; 
for  if  one  climbed  to  the  highest  story  of  the  convent  and 
looked  out  of  any  window  to  the  north,  one  beheld  that 
never-ceasing  miracle  —  the  sea ! 

Sister  Anne  had  known  no  other  home  but  the  convent 
for  nearly  half  a  century,  but  the  sight  of  those  unresting 
waves  never  failed  to  set  her  spirit  free:  free  of  unknown 
and  enchanted  worlds,  worlds  of  wonder,  of  mystery,  and 
of  heart-stirring  beauty.  She  was  merely  a  plain,  silent, 
hard-working,  rather  stupid  old  woman,  who  had  never 
been  in  all  her  life  admired  or  considered,  or  even  loved, 
unless  one  counts  the  tepid  affection  of  those  with  whom 
she  lived.  She  had  been  brought  here  as  a  young  girl  from 
the  orphanage  where  she  had  passed  her  childhood;  and 
since  she  had  been  one  of  those  who  are  always  willing  to 
do  what  is  asked  of  them,  no  matter  how  unpleasant  or 
hard  it  may  be,  there  had  fallen  to  her  share  all  the  hum 
blest  and  meanest  of  the  household  tasks,  all  the  petty 
drudgeries  which  must  be  done  and  which  no  one  wishes 
to  do.  Her  place  was  always  in  the  kitchen  or  the  laundry. 


THE   DEBT  41 

She  would  have  liked  to  cook,  but  that  had  never  been 
suggested.  She  had  always  been  put  to  washing  dishes. 
Here  again  she  had  a  preference:  she  would  have  liked  to 
wash  the  glassware,  which  came  out  of  the  hot  suds  like 
bubbles  and  must  be  polished  on  the  softest  and  cleanest 
of  towels;  or  even  the  clumsy  plated  forks  and  spoons, 
which  to  her  were  very  beautiful.  There  was  nothing  deli 
cate  or  lovely  about  the  great  iron  soup-kettles  which  her 
patient  hands  must  cleanse,  or  about  the  greasy  roasting 
pans.  And  it  was  the  same  way  in  the  laundry.  Only  the 
coarsest,  heaviest  of  the  washing  was  given  to  her:  the  rag 
mats  that  lay  beside  the  beds  in  the  dormitories,  the  big 
aprons  that  the  working  sisters  wore,  the  cloths  that  were 
used  in  cleaning  the  lamps.  Not  for  her  the  intricacies  of 
starching  and  skillful  ironing  and  fluting. 

Yet  all  the  years  of  toil  had  not  saddened  Sister  Anne. 
If  any  one  had  questioned  her  and  she  had  been  able  to 
express  herself,  she  might  have  said  that  the  forces  which 
had  formed  her  sturdy  body  had  given  her  also  a  spirit 
capable  of  sustaining  itself  on  the  most  meagre  happiness. 
But  no  one  questioned  her,  and  she  was  at  all  times  slow 
and  scant  of  speech. 

The  sources  of  her  contentment  lay  all  without  the  con 
vent  walls ;  and  being  there,  it  was  strange  that  she  should 
have  discovered  them.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  not 
discovered  them.  They  had  come,  through  a  slow  and  un 
conscious  process,  to  be  a  part  of  her  life.  It  had  begun, 
humbly  enough,  in  the  kitchen  garden.  When  first  she 
came  to  the  convent  she  had  not  been  very  well,  and  they 
had  set  her  to  weeding  the  vegetables  in  order  that  she 
might  be  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible.  Her  simple, 
kindly  nature  had  turned  in  solicitude  and  affection  to  this 
springing  life  that  responded  to  her  tendance.  No  great 
and  lovely  lady  in  her  garden  ever  looked  with  more  pride 


42  THE  DEBT 

and  admiration  on  her  roses  and  lilies  than  did  Sister 
Anne  on  her  beans  and  cabbages  and  early  peas.  Through 
them  she  had  come  to  watch  with  interest  every  change  in 
the  weather,  anxious  for  the  needed  rain,  fearful  of  the 
early  frost,  rejoicing  when  sun  and  air  and  moisture  did 
their  kindly  best. 

And  thus  it  was,  through  a  process  simple,  gradual,  in 
evitable,  that  her  heart  had  wakened  to  the  wonder  and 
the  beauty  of  the  world  about  her.  At  first  she  saw  no 
farther  than  the  garden,  finding  joy  in  the  clear  green  of 
the  new  shoots,  pleasure  in  the  sturdy  growth  of  some 
robust  plant,  or  a  still  ecstasy  in  the  dew-crowned  fresh 
ness  of  the  bean  flowers  in  the  early  morning.  But  soon 
that  morning  magic  lay  before  her  marveling  eyes  upon  the 
near-by  fields  and  the  distant  hills,  and  in  time  she  beheld 
the  wonderful  pageant  from  mystic  dawn  to  dawn,  and 
that  still  more  wonderful  pageant  of  the  changing  months. 

No  one  knew  or  guessed  the  joy  that  filled  her  life  from 
this  dumb  intercourse  with  flying  cloud  or  snow-hung 
cherry  tree,  or  from  the  deep  stillness  of  a  green-clad  hill  in 
a  summer  noon.  When  she  was  younger,  she  used  some 
times  to  speak  of  these  things  to  her  companions ;  but  she 
had  early  learned  that  they  neither  understood  nor  cared 
to  understand  the  feelings  which  she  would  have  shared 
with  them.  But  this  did  not  disturb  her.  She  felt  for  those 
with  whom  she  lived  good-will  and  a  mild  affection,  but 
hers  was  not  a  nature  to  expect  or  need  sympathy.  She  had 
a  profound  and  sincere  humility  which  rendered  her  in 
capable  of  envy.  She  felt  herself,  without  bitterness,  to  be 
the  inferior  of  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  The 
fact  that  they  were  indifferent  to  what  were  to  her  the 
purest  sources  of  happiness  never  seemed  to  her  a  lack  in 
them,  but  only  an  accentuation  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
less  clever  than  they.  To  read,  to  embroider,  to  converse. 


THE  DEBT  43 

to  make  long  devotions,  were  all  beyond  her  powers.  She 
was  not  *  spiritual-minded.'  Prayers  were  to  her  a  tedious 
and  difficult  task,  to  be  fulfilled  conscientiously  but  always 
finished  with  relief.  This  indeed  came  by  slow  degrees  to 
be  a  source  of  pain  and  anxiety  to  her.  She  felt  herself  a 
sinner.  In  the  laborious  and  inarticulate  processes  of  her 
mind  there  gradually  took  form  the  knowledge  that  she 
would  rather  do  any  kind  of  work  than  pray;  that  she 
would  rather,  far  rather,  sit  in  idleness,  looking  out  upon 
the  familiar,  beloved  landscape,  than  pray.  This  seemed 
to  her  inexplicably  wicked,  but  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
change,  although  she  sometimes  felt  that  she  would  go  to 
hell  because  of  it. 

Such  thoughts  were,  however,  neither  frequent  nor  en 
during  with  her.  When  she  made  her  preparation  for  con 
fession,  she  used  sometimes  to  endeavor  to  formulate  this 
general  sense  of  wrongdoing;  but  the  matter  was  too  subtle 
for  her  limited  powers  of  expression,  and  she  never  got  be 
yond  the  specific  instance,  as  when  she  neglected  the  ket 
tles  so  that  she  might  watch  a  storm  coming  up  across  the 
hills,  or  walked  five  miles  on  a  singing  May  morning  to  get 
a  not  indispensable  supply  of  fresh  eggs  from  a  farmhouse. 
Not  for  many  penances  would  she  have  foregone  the  clean 
joy  of  that  walk.  Spring  came  late  and  slowly  to  this  bit 
of  world  beside  the  sea,  but  came  none  the  less  surely,  none 
the  less  with  magic  and  enchantment  in  its  wings;  the  new 
color  on  field  and  hill,  the  wonderful  smell  of  the  earth  and 
of  the  budding  shoots,  the  divine  air,  that  now  blew  chill 
and  austere  as  from  the  cave  of  winter  itself  and  now 
touched  the  cheek  with  a  shyness,  a  softness,  a  warmth, 
like  early  love. 

Sister  Anne  had  no  imagery.  She  was  sixty  years  old, 
ignorant,  unread,  unimaginative,  slow  and  dull  of  wit.  Yet 
walking  through  this  newly-created  world,  she  felt  that  joy 


44  THE  DEBT 

more  keen  than  pain  —  that  wordless  ecstasy  whose  chan 
nel  is  the  senses,  but  which  sends  the  spirit  groping  back 
toward  God  who  gave  it  life.  Although  she  felt  that  this 
marvelous  universe  came  from  the  beneficent  hand  of  some 
supreme  Good,  she  never  identified  it  with  the  Deity  to 
whom  she  made  her  difficult  devotions.  Deep  in  her  heart 
there  grew  a  strong  sense  of  gratitude,  of  obligation,  a  wish 
vague  and  unformed,  yet  compelling,  that  in  some  way  she 
might  make  return  for  the  happiness  which  life  had  brought 
her. 

She  tried  to  spend  more  time  in  the  chapel  and  to  say 
an  extra  number  of  Aves;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  her,  and 
even  her  unseeking  mind  felt  some  doubt  as  to  the  worth 
of  such  mechanical  and  joyless  prayers. 

So  the  placid  months  and  years  slipped  by,  and  at  last 
there  came  to  Sister  Anne,  as  does  not  come  to  all  of  us, 
her  great  hour. 

It  was  a  cloudless,  windless,  intolerably  hot  day  in  mid 
summer.  Sister  Anne  had  been  on  an  errand  to  a  fisher 
man's  hut  at  some  distance  from  the  convent.  As  she 
walked  slowly  home  through  the  woods,  she  reached  a  place 
in  the  path  which  led  near  the  shore  and  from  which  a  few 
steps  brought  her  out  upon  a  little  promontory.  Never,  it 
seemed  to  her,  had  the  sea  looked  so  blue  or  the  sails  of  the 
distant  ships  so  white.  She  stood  for  a  long  time  gazing  out 
toward  the  horizon  before  she  saw  anything  nearer;  but 
when  she  did  see,  she  hurried  down  to  where  she  could  get 
out  on  the  beach.  On  a  tiny  rocky  islet  some  two  hundred 
feet  or  so  from  the  shore  lay  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  swim 
ming-suit.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  either  dead  or  un 
conscious. 

Sister  Anne  considered  for  a  while  and  then  without  even 
removing  her  shoes,  waded  out  to  him.  He  was  not  dead, 
she  found  at  once,  but  stunned  by  a  blow  on  the  head,  ap- 


THE  DEBT  45 

parently  from  one  of  the  sharp  rocks  on  which  he  lay. 
Sister  Anne  cleansed  and  bound  the  wound  with  her  ker 
chief,  and  then  sat  for  a  few  moments,  her  face  grave  and 
perplexed.  Her  bit  of  human  wreckage  was  only  a  boy  of 
sixteen  or  so,  tall,  slender,  with  thick,  rough  blond  hair  and 
skin  fair  as  a  child's.  Sister  Anne,  by  putting  forth  her 
whole  strength,  had  been  able  to  move  him  only  a  few  in 
ches  so  that  it  was  manifestly  impossible  for  her  to  get  him 
to  the  shore.  The  fisherman's  hut  from  which  she  had  just 
come  was  deserted,  its  owner  off  on  a  cruise;  there  was  not 
even  a  boat  there.  The  convent  was  a  good  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  away,  make  what  haste  she  would,  and  it  would 
take  as  much  longer  to  return  with  help.  In  an  hour,  she 
well  knew,  the  islet  would  be  submerged  by  the  rising  tide. 
She  knew  of  no  other  fishing-hut  and  of  no  farmhouse 
nearer  than  the  convent. 

The  water  had  been  nearly  to  her  waist  in  one  place  as 
she  came,  and  she  could  see  that  it  had  risen  a  little,  even 
in  this  short  time.  She  took  off  her  black  robe  and  did  what 
she  could  with  its  aid  to  put  the  helpless  lad  in  a  more 
comfortable  position;  then,  desperately,  by  every  means  at 
her  command,  she  set  about  restoring  him  to  consciousness. 
For  a  long  time  she  met  no  response  to  her  efforts.  Indeed, 
more  than  once  she  anxiously  leaned  her  ear  against  his 
chest,  to  be  sure  that  his  heart  still  beat.  At  last,  when  she 
had  almost  given  up,  discouraged,  he  made  a  slight  sound, 
and  a  moment  later  tried  to  sit  up,  only  to  sink  back  into 
coma  again.  In  a  few  minutes  more,  however,  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  with  manifest  intelligence.  In 
stantly  she  spoke  to  him  with  all  the  urgency  she  could 
summon. 

4  You  must  swim  ashore  as  soon  as  you  can.  The  tide  is 
coming  in  and  if  you  stay  here  you  will  be  drowned,  unless 
you  are  able  to  swim.  If  you  can  start  now  you  will  be  able 


46  THE  DEBT 

to  walk  part  of  the  way  between  here  and  the  beach;  but 
part  you  must  swim,  even  now/ 

Again  he  struggled  to  sit  up  and  this  time  succeeded, 
although  for  a  moment  he  had  to  lean  against  Sister  Anne's 
shoulder. 

'As  soon  as  you  are  able/  she  reiterated  anxiously, 
'you  must  swim  ashore.' 

He  shifted  himself  and  gazed  at  her  in  considerable  per 
plexity. 

'Do  you  know  how  I  hurt  my  head? '  he  asked.  '  I  must 
have  fallen  as  I  was  climbing  up  here.  And  how  did  you 
come  here?' 

'I  was  passing,'  Sister  Anne  explained,  'and  I  saw  you 
lying  here.  I  waded  out  to  you.  The  water  was  not  as  deep 
then.  Now  — ' 

She  paused,  and  a  look  of  fear  and  anguish  grew  in  her 
dull  eyes. 

'You  cannot  swim?'  asked  the  boy. 

'Oh,  no,  no!'  she  answered,  her  head  sinking  on  her 
breast. 

'  Yet  you  stayed  here  to  help  me  when  you  might  have 
got  safe  ashore  if  you  had  left  me?  Did  you  know  that 
you  would  be  caught  by  the  tide?' 

'I  am  old,'  she  answered;  'it  must  come  to  me  before 
many  years  in  any  case.  But  you  are  so  young.  I  could  not 
leave  you.  Your  mother  —  ' 

The  boy  looked  at  her  a  moment  with  shining  eyes  and 
flushing  face.  Then  he  rose  cautiously,  and  tentatively 
flexed  the  muscles  of  his  legs  and  arms. 

'Will  you  take  off  your  shoes?'  he  said  gently. 

She  gazed  at  him  in  bewilderment,  and  he  explained  to 
her  carefully  what  he  would  do  and  what  she  must  do.  It 
took  some  time  to  make  her  understand,  for  her  slow  mind 
had  not  compassed  such  a  possibility;  but  when  once  it 


THE  DEBT  47 

was  clear  to  -±er  what  was  to  be  done,  she  was  docility  itself. 
Well  for  Sister  Anne  now  that  the  strongest  habit  of  her 
life  was  obedience.  But  for  that,  the  lad,  strong  swimmer 
as  he  was,  could  not  have  brought  her  safe  to  shore. 

That  night  the  placid  life  of  the  convent  throbbed  and 
thrilled  with  an  excitement  unknown  in  its  history.  Sister 
Anne,  for  the  first  time  in  her  existence,  was  the  centre  of 
a  storm  of  solicitude,  of  attention,  of  agitation.  She  her 
self  was  unmoved.  She  came  back  from  death  as  unemo 
tionally  as  she  had  gone  to  meet  it.  She  sat  by  the  window 
of  her  room,  wishing  that  she  might  be  left  alone  to  watch 
the  moon  rise  above  the  quiet  hills. 

The  Mother  Superior,  the  cure  himself,  had  visited  her, 
had  said  strange  and  wonderful  things  to  her  which  she 
scarcely  understood.  The  whole  Sisterhood  buzzed  about 
her  like  a  hive,  for  it  seemed  that  the  fair-skinned  lad  of 
her  adventure  was  the  heir  of  a  house  whose  name  was 
famous  in  many  lands,  and  the  father  was  even  now  stand 
ing  at  her  threshold. 

Sister  Anne  was  not  embarrassed  by  the  great  presence, 
fame  and  wealth  and  high  birth  and  all  the  glories  of  this 
world  being  indeed  less  than  words  to  her.  Moreover,  her 
visitor  brought  to  this  interview  with  an  old  unlettered 
woman  all  the  charm  and  suavity  and  tact  of  which  he  was 
so  well  the  master.  The  tale  his  son  had  told  had  seemed  to 
him  incredible  and  touching,  and  he  felt  a  desire  to  under 
stand  the  impulses  which  had  made  possible  so  singular 
an  episode.  He  soon  found  that  she  had  indeed  faced  death 
in  full  knowledge  of  what  she  did;  that  she  had  wittingly 
given  up  her  chance  of  escape  that  the  boy  might  have  his. 
But  to  find  the  motive  was  not  so  simple.  Delicately  he 
probed  one  channel  after  another:  duty,  heroism,  religious 
training,  in  none  of  these  could  he  find  the  clue.  Her  life, 


48  THE  DEBT 

he  reflected,  could  hardly  have  been  so  full  of  happiness  as 
to  have  attached  her  very  strongly  to  this  world,  and  deftly 
he  pursued  that  trail,  still  unsuccessfully. 

Baffled  for  the  moment,  he  was  silent,  watching  her  un- 
revealing  face.  The  late  summer  twilight  was  darkening 
into  deep  shadows  on  the  hillside,  but  the  eastern  sky  was 
still  clear  yellow  from  the  sunset.  Just  beyond  that  bank 
of  clouds,  Sister  Anne  thought,  the  moon  would  rise  before 
long.  The  man  beside  her,  still  pondering  his  problem, 
made  some  comment  on  the  clustering  trees  in  the  valley 
below. 

She  turned  to  him  at  once  with  a  changed  look. 

'They  are  at  their  thickest  now/  was  all  she  said;  but 
he  saw  that  at  last  he  had  opened  the  closed  door. 

In  a  few  moments  more,  under  his  skillful  touch,  were 
revealed  to  him  the  simple  and  profound  sources  of  happi 
ness  on  which  her  spirit  fed.  In  sentences  so  incomplete, 
in  thoughts  so  inarticulate  as  to  be  mere  suggestion,  he 
comprehended  her,  and  at  length,  with  infinite  gentleness, 
drew  forth  the  thread  of  explanation  which  he  had  sought 
so  patiently. 

She  had  felt  for  long,  he  gathered,  that  she  owed  a  heavy 
debt  in  return  for  all  the  joy  in  life  that  had  been  hers.  She 
felt  that  her  life  had  held  more  happiness  than  she  deserved, 
happiness  for  which  she  had  made,  it  seemed  to  her,  but 
inadequate  return.  When  she  had  found  the  helpless  lad, 
she  had  found  also,  it  seemed,  her  chance  of  payment.  If 
she  might  save  his  life  or  at  least  give  her  own  in  the  effort, 
this  debt  that  she  owed  the  world  would  be  lessened. 

When  she  had  managed  in  some  fashion  to  convey  this 
much  to  her  sympathetic  listener,  she  paused  and  looked 
at  him  wistfully. 

'A  human  life/  he  said,  in  instant  response,  'is  worth 
more  than  words  can  measure.  You  gave  the  greatest  gift 


THE  DEBT  49 

in  your  power.  Be  content.  When  you  behold  the  sunlight 
on  the  sea  to-morrow,  say  to  yourself,  "But  for  me  there 
is  one  on  whom  the  sun  would  not  shine  to-day. "  ' 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and  he  saw  her  breast  rise 
and  fall  in  one  slow  breath  as  if  of  relief. 

A  little  longer  he  sat,  considering,  in  strange  humility, 
this  old  and  humble  woman  toward  whom  he  had  had  such 
generous  intentions.  What  of  the  many  gifts  in  his  power 
might  he  offer  that  could  enrich  her  life?  Nothing!  Noth 
ing  to  give  to  this  poor,  lonely,  ignorant,  toil-worn  being 
who  in  her  starved  existence  had  found  more  joy  than  she 
could  make  return  for! 

Once  more  he  thanked  her  in  his  son's  name  and  his  own, 
and  with  as  careful  a  courtesy  as  if  she  had  been  his  sover 
eign,  bade  her  farewell. 

The  moon  had  climbed  above  the  bank  of  clouds  now, 
and  the  hillside  lay  transfigured  in  its  light.  Sister  Anne 
leaned  her  head  against  the  window-casing  and  looked  for 
a  while  into  the  still  summer  night;  then  presently,  being 
very  weary,  she  slept,  a  dreamless  sleep. 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

BY   CORNELIA   A.    P.    COMER 


*  RICHARD/  said  my  dad  about  a  week  after  Commence 
ment,  'life  is  real.  You  have  had  your  education  and  your 
keep,  and  you're  a  pleasant  enough  lad  around  the  house. 
But  the  time  has  come  to  see  what 's  in  you,  and  I  want  you 
to  begin  to  show  it  right  away.  If  you  go  to  the  coast  with 
the  family,  it  will  mean  three  months  fooling  around  with 
the  yacht  and  the  cars  and  a  bunch  of  pretty  girls.  There's 
nothing  in  that  for  you  any  longer/ 

Of  course,  this  rubbed  me  the  wrong  way. 

'Now  you  've  got  your  degree,  it 's  time  we  started  some 
thing  else.  You  say  you  want  to  be  a  scholar  —  I  suppose 
that  means  a  college  professor.  Of  course  scholarship 
does  n't  pay,  but  if  I  leave  you  a  few  good  bonds,  probably 
you  can  clip  the  coupons  while  you  last.  I  don't  insist  that 
you  make  money,  but  I  do  insist  that  you  work.  My  son 
must  be  able  to  lick  his  weight  in  wild-cats,  whatever  job 
he 'son.  Do  you  get  me?' 

I  looked  out  of  the  window  and  nodded,  somewhat 
haughtily.  Of  course  I  could  n't  explain  to  dad  the  mixture 
of  feelings  that  led  me  to  choose  scholarship.  For,  while  I 
am  keen  on  philology,  and  really  do  love  the  classics  so  that 
my  spirit  seems  to  swim,  if  you  know  what  I  mean,  in  the 
atmosphere  that  upheld  Horace  and  the  wise  Cicero  of  'De 
Senectute,'  I  also  thought  there  was  money  enough  in  the 
family  already.  Was  n't  it  a  good  thing  for  the  Bonniwells 
to  pay  tribute  to  the  humanities  in  my  person?  Did  n't  we, 
somehow,  owe  it  to  the  world  to  put  back  in  culture  part  of 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          51 

what  we  took  out  in  cash?  But  how  could  I  get  that  across 
to  dad? 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he,  too,  were  trying  to  utter  some 
thing  difficult. 

*  There  are  passions  of  the  head  as  well  as  of  the  heart,' 
he  said  finally.  I  opened  my  eyes,  for  he  did  n't  often  talk 
in  such  fashion.    'The  old  Greeks  knew  that.    I  always 
supposed  a  scholar,  a  teacher,  had  to  feel  that  way  if  he  was 
any  good  —  that  it  was  the  mark  of  his  calling.   Perhaps 
you've  been  called;  but,  if  so,  you  keep  it  pretty  dark.' 

He  stopped  and  waited  for  an  appropriate  response,  but 
I  just  could  n't  get  it  out.  So  I  remarked,  'If  I'm  not  on 
the  boat  this  summer,  you  '11  need  another  man  when  you 
cruise.' 

*  That's    my    affair,'    said    he,    looking  disappointed. 
'Yours  will  be  to  hold  down  your  job.   I've  got  one  ready 
for  you.   If  you  don't  like  it,  you  can  get  another.   We  '11 
see  about  a  Ph.D.  and  Germany  later  on.  But  for  this  sea 
son,  I  had  influence  enough  to  get  you  the  summer  school  in 
the  Jericho  district  beyond  Garibaldi,  and  you  can  board 
with  Seth  Miles.' 

When  I  was  a  child,  before  we  moved  to  Chicago,  we 
lived  in  Gates ville,  at  the  back  of  beyond.  Garibaldi  is  an 
Indiana  cross-roads  about  five  miles  farther  on  the  road  to 
nowhere. 

'  0  dad! '  I  said;  but  I  put  everything  I  thought  into  those 
two  words. 

He  instantly  began  to  look  as  much  like  the  heavy  father 
on  the  stage  as  is  possible  to  a  spare  man  with  a  Roman 
nose.  So  I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

'  Oh,  very  well ! '  I  said.  '  If  you  find  me  a  fossil  in  the  fall, 
pick  out  a  comfortable  museum  to  lend  me  to,  won't  you?' 

'Richard.'  said  my  dad,  'God  only  knows  how  a  boy 
should  be  dealt  with.  I  don 't.  If  I  could  only  tell  you  the 


52          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

things  I  know  so  you  would  believe  them,  I'd  set  a  match 
to  half  my  fortune  this  minute.  I  want  you  to  touch  life 
somewhere,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  work  it  in.  I'm  doing 
this  in  sheer  desperation.' 

I  could  see  he  meant  it,  too,  for  his  eyes  were  shiny  and 
the  little  drops  came  out  on  his  forehead. 

*  I  don't  happen  to  know  anybody  fitter  than  old  Miles 
to  inspire  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  So,  if  the  summer 
does  n't  do  you  any  good,  it  can't  do  you  any  harm.  I 
shall  label  your  season's  work  "  Richard  Bonniwell,  Jr.  on 
His  Own  Hook.  Exhibit  A."  —Don't  forget  that.  Your 
mother  and  I  may  seem  to  be  in  Maine,  but  I  guess  in  our 
minds  we'll  be  down  at  Jericho  schoolhouse  looking  on, 
most  of  the  time.' 

You  'd  think  a  man  might  buck  up  in  response  to  that, 
would  n't  you?  But  I  did  n't  particularly.  It  made  me  feel 
superior  toward  dad  because  he  didn't  know  any  better 
than  to  arrange  such  a  summer,  thinking  it  would  teach  me 
anything.  I  suspected  this  indulgent  attitude  of  mine 
might  break  down  later,  and  it  did. 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  summer  for  one  thing.  One  of  those 
occasional  summers  of  the  Middle  West  when  the  cattle 
pant  in  the  fields  and  the  blades  of  corn  get  limp  on  their 
stalks. 

Mr.  Miles,  who  was  a  benign  bachelor,  lived  in  a  brick 
farmhouse  with  one  long  wing,  and  a  furnace  of  which  he 
was  very  proud.  He  put  up  his  own  ice,  too,  which  was 
more  to  the  point  in  July.  His  widowed  sister  kept  house 
for  him,  and,  if  the  meat  was  usually  tough,  the  cream  and 
vegetables  were  beyond  praise.  He  owned  the  store  at 
Garibaldi  as  well  as  this  large  farm;  so  he  was  a  man  of 
means,  and  important  in  his  own  sphere.  To  look  at,  he 
was  rather  wonderful.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  him. 
He  had  keen,  kind  blue  eyes;  wavy,  white  hair;  strong, 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          53 

regular  features.  There  was  a  kind  of  graciousness  and  dis 
tinction  about  him  that  didn't  fit  his  speech  and  dress. 
It  was  as  if  you  always  saw  the  man  he  might  be  in  the 
shadow  of  the  man  he  was.  Put  him  into  evening  clothes 
and  take  away  his  vernacular,  and  he'd  be  one  of  the 
loveliest  old  patriarchs  you  ever  met. 

The  schoolhouse  was  brick,  too ;  set  back  from  the  road 
in  a  field  of  hard-trodden  clay,  decorated  with  moth-eaten 
patches  of  grass.  For  further  adornment,  there  was  a  row 
of  box-alders  out  in  front.  As  a  temple  of  learning,  it  fell 
short.  As  its  ministrant,  I  did  the  same. 

There  were  forty  scholars:  squirmy,  grimy  little  things 
that  I  found  it  hard  to  tell  apart  at  first.  I  knew  this  was 
not  the  right  attitude,  but  how  could  I  help  it?  I  had  never 
tried  to  teach  anybody  anything  before  in  my  life.  The 
bigger  girls  blushed  and  giggled;  the  little  boys  made  faces 
and  stuck  out  their  tongues.  As  it  was  a  summer  session, 
there  were  no  big  boys  to  speak  of. 

To  go  in  for  scholarship  does  not  at  all  imply  the  teach 
er's  gift  or  the  desire  for  it.  At  Oxford,  you  know,  they  are 
a  bit  sniffy  about  the  lecturers  who  arouse  enthusiasm. 
Such  are  suspected  of  being  *  popular,'  and  that,  really,  is 
quite  awful.  Some  of  our  men  have  a  similar  notion,  and, 
no  doubt,  it  colored  my  views.  Yet,  deep  down,  I  knew 
that  if  I  was  a  teacher,  it  was  up  to  me  to  teach.  I  really 
did  try,  but  it  takes  time  to  get  the  hang  of  anything. 

I  was  homesick,  too.  Mildred  and  Millicent,  my  kid  sis 
ters,  are  great  fun,  and  the  house  is  full  of  young  people  all 
summer  long  at  home.  When  I  shut  my  eyes  I  could  see  the 
blue,  sparkling  waters  of  the  inlet,  and  the  rocking  of  our 
float  with  its  line  of  gay  canoes. 

How  can  I  describe  the  rising  tide  of  sick  disgust  at  my 
surroundings  that  began  to  flood  my  spirit?  Now  that  it 's 
all  in  the  past,  I  'd  like  to  think  it  was  purely  my  liver,  — 


54          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

I  did  n't  get  enough  exercise,  really  I  did  n't,  for  it  was  too 
hot  to  walk  much,  —  but  perhaps  part  of  it  was  just  bad 
temper. 

You  see,  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  a  fellow  to  stand  such  a 
complete  transplanting.  I  hated  the  paper  shades  in  my 
bedroom,  tied  up  with  a  cord,  and  the  Nottingham  cur 
tains,  and  the  springs  that  sank  in  the  middle.  I  hated  the 
respectable  Brussels  carpet  in  the  best  room,  and  the  red 
rocking-chairs  on  the  porch.  I  hated  the  hot,  sleepless 
nights  and  the  blazing,  drowsy  days. 

Oh,  I  tell  you,  I  had  a  glorious  grouch ! 

I  did  n't  exactly  hate  the  squirming  children,  for  some 
of  them  began  to  show  signs  of  almost  human  intelligence 
after  they  got  used  to  me,  and  that  did  win  me;  but 
I  hated  that  little  schoolroom  where  the  flies  buzzed 
loudly  all  day  long  on  the  streaky  panes.  With  deadly 
hatred  I  hated  it. 

I  got  to  feeling  very  badly  treated.  What  did  my  father 
suppose  such  commonplace  discomforts  were  going  to  do 
for  me  ?  What  part  had  a  summer  like  this  in  the  life  and 
work  that  were  to  be  mine?  I  lost  that  comfortable  little 
feeling  of  advantage  over  life.  I  mislaid  my  consciousness  of 
the  silver  spoon.  In  about  three  weeks  it  seemed  as  if  I  'd 
always  taught  summer-school  at  Jericho,  and  might  have 
to  keep  on. 

Oh,  well !  —  I  was  hot  and  sore.  Everybody  has  been 
hot  and  sore  some  time  or  other,  I  suppose.  The  minute 
description  can  be  omitted.  But  I  don't  know  whether 
everybody  with  a  grievance  gets  so  badly  twisted  up  in  it 
as  I  do. 

These  emotions  reached  their  climax  one  muggy,  sultry 
July  day  as  I  plodded,  moist  and  unhappy,  back  from  the 
schoolhouse.  I  wiped  my  forehead,  gritted  my  teeth,  and 
vowed  I  would  not  stand  the  whole  situation  another 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          55 

twenty-four  hours.  I'd  resign  my  position,  wire  dad,  and 
take  a  train  for  somewhere  out  West  in  the  mountains.  If 
I  had  to  make  good  on  my  own  hook  in  three  months,  I  'd 
at  least  do  it  in  a  cool  place,  at  work  of  my  selecting.  The 
challenged  party  ought  to  have  the  choice  of  weapons. 

My  room  was  intolerably  stuffy,  so  I  came  downstairs 
reluctantly  and  sat  on  the  front  steps.  There  was  a  wide 
outlook,  for  the  house  stood  on  a  ridge  of  land  that  broke 
the  flat  prairie  like  a  great  welt.  Old  Miles  was  there, 
watching  a  heavy  cloud-bank  off  in  the  southwest.  Those 
clouds  had  been  fooling  around  every  evening  for  a  week, 
but  nothing  ever  came  of  it.  The  longer  the  drought,  the 
harder  it  is  to  break. 

I  made  some  caustic  remark  about  the  weather  as  I  sat 
down.  Probabty  I  looked  cross  enough  to  bite  the  poker. 

Miles  looked  at  me  and  then  looked  away  quickly,  as  if 
it  really  was  not  decent  to  be  observing  a  fellow  in  such  a 
rage.  I  knew  the  look,  for  I  've  felt  that  way  myself  about 
other  men. 

'Yes,  bad  weather,'  he  said.  'When  it  gets  too  hot  and 
dry  for  corn,  it 's  too  hot  and  dry  for  folks.  And  then  —  it 
always  rains.  It  '11  rain  to-night.  You  wait  and  see.' 

I  mumbled  something  disparaging  to  the  universe. 

'Richard!'  said  Mr.  Miles  suddenly  and  strongly,  'I 
know  what  ails  you.  It  ain't  the  weather,  it's  your  teach 
ing.  You  're  discouraged  because  you  can't  make  'em  sense 
things.  But  it  ain't  time  yet  for  you  to  get  discouraged.  I 
hate  to  see  it,  for  it  ain't  necessary.' 

This  made  me  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  myself. 

'Did  you  ever  teach,  Mr.  Miles? '  I  asked,  for  the  sake  of 
seeming  civil. 

'Yes,  I  did.  So  I  know  there  's  a  secret  to  teachin'  you 
prob'ly  ain't  got  yet.  I  dunno  as  I  could  help  you  to  it. 
It  ain't  likely.  An'  yet  — ' 


56          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

Unlikely  indeed!  I  thought.  Aloud,  I  said  politely,  *I  'd 
be  glad  to  hear  your  views.' 

*  I  know  what  you  feel ! '  he  said  with  extraordinary  en 
ergy.  *  My  Lord!  Don't  I  know  what  you  feel?  You  want 
to  make  'em  sense  things  as  you  sense  'em.  You  want  to 
make  'em  work  as  you  can  work.  You  won't  be  satisfied 
until  you ' ve  given  'em  the  thirst  to  know  and  the  means 
of  knowing.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  feel!' 

I  stared  at  him,  dumbfounded.  I  knew  what  I  felt,  too, 
but  it  was  n't  much  like  this. 

'There  are  pictures  in  your  brain  that  you  must  show 
'em.  There  's  a  universe  to  cram  inside  their  heads.  God 
has  been  workin '  for  a  billion  years  at  doing  things  —  and 
just  one  little  life  to  learn  about  'em  in !  To  feel  you  're  on 
His  trail,  a-following  fast,  and  got  to  pass  the  feeling  on  — 
I  guess  there 's  no  wine  on  earth  so  heady,  is  there,  boy? ' 

I  could  n't  pretend  I  did  n't  understand  him.  I  have  had 
it  too  —  that  wonderful  sensation  we  pack  away  into  two 
dry  words  and  label  'intellectual  stimulus.'  But  it  had  n't 
come  to  me  that  I  could,  or  should,  pass  it  on.  I  thought 
it  was  an  emotion  designed  for  my  private  encouragement 
and  delight.  And  what  was  old  Seth  Miles  doing  with  in 
tellectual  stimulus?  I  would  as  soon  expect  to  unearth  a 
case  of  champagne  in  his  cellar.  But,  however  he  got  it, 
undeniably  it  was  the  real  thing. 

A  dozen  questions  rushed  to  my  tongue,  but  I  held  them 
back,  for  he  was  looking  me  up  and  down  with  a  wistful 
tenderness  that  seemed  to  prelude  further  revelation. 

'  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story  now,'  he  said  with 
an  effort.  'I  promised  your  father  I  would.  He  told  me  to. 
And  I  'd  better  get  it  over.  Mebbe  there 's  something  in  it 
for  you  —  and  mebbe  not.  But  here  it  is.' 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE  57 


II 

*I  Ve  lived  right  here  since  I  was  a  little  shaver.  My 
father  cleared  this  land  on  the  Ridge,  and  as  I  grew  up, 
I  helped  him.  We  were  a  small  family  for  those  days.  I 
was  the  only  boy.  There  was  one  sister,  Sarah,  who  keeps 
house  for  me  now  —  and  Cynthy.  Cynthy  was  an  orphan 
my  folks  took  to  raise  for  company  to  Sarah.  My  father 
was  her  guardeen  and  she  had  two  thousand  dollars,  so  it 
wasn't  charity,  you  understand.  She  was  the  prettiest 
child,  an '  the  gentlest,  I  ever  see,  with  her  big  brown  eyes, 
her  curly  bronze  hair,  an*  her  friendly  little  ways.  I  made 
it  my  business  to  look  after  Cynthy,  the  way  a  bigger  boy 
will,  from  the  time  she  come  to  us.  Sometimes  Sarah,  be 
ing  larger  an'  self-willed,  would  pick  on  her  a  little  —  an' 
then  I'd  put  Sarah  in  her  place  mighty  sudden.  P'raps 
Cynthy  was  my  romance,  for  she  was  a  little  finer  stuff 
than  we  were.  But  I  was  n't  a  sentimental  boy.  Quite  the 
other  way.  Mostly  I  was  counted  a  handful.  You  ain't 
got  anybody  in  your  school  as  hard  to  handle  as  I  was  when 
I  was  a  cub. 

*  When  I  went  to  school,  I  went  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  to 
torment  the  teacher.  I  hadn't  another  thought  in  my 
head.  If  I  did  n't  get  a  lickin'  once  a  week,  I  thought  I  was 
neglected.  When  I  was  sixteen,  I  'd  been  through  Day- 
boll's  Arithmetic,  and  I  could  read  and  spell  a  little  for 
my  own  use,  but  my  spelling  was  n't  much  good  to  any 
body  else.  That  was  all  I  knew  and  all  I  wanted  to  know. 
You  see,  the  little  I  learned  was  all  plastered  on  the  out 
side,  so  to  speak.  It  had  n't  called  to  anything  inside  me 
then. 

'One  fall  there  come  a  new  teacher  to  our  school,  a 
young  fellow  earnin*  money  to  get  through  college.  He 
got  on  the  right  side  of  me  somehow.  I  can't  tell  how  he 


58          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

did  it,  because  I  don't  know.  But  first  he  set  me  studying 
and  then  he  set  me  thinking.  And  I  began  to  work  at  books 
from  the  inside.  They  were  n't  tasks  any  more.  He  made 
me  feel  like  I  had  a  mind  and  could  use  it,  just  like  I  knew 
I  had  strong  muscles  and  could  use  them.  Seemed  's  if 
when  I  once  got  started,  I  could  n't  stop.  I  got  up  morn 
ings  to  study.  I  studied  nights  an'  I  studied  Sundays. 
There  could  n't  nothing  stop  me.  I  thought  I  'd  found  the 
biggest  thing  on  earth  when  I  found  out  how  to  make  my 
mind  work!  Jerusalem!  Those  were  days!  I  was  happy 
then !  Sometimes  I  wonder  what  the  Lord  's  got  saved  up 
for  us  in  the  next  world  as  good  as  that  tasted  in  this.' 

He  stopped,  threw  back  his  head  and  drew  in  a  long, 
ecstatic  breath,  as  though  he  would  taste  again  the  sharp, 
sweet  flavor  of  that  draught. 

*I  studied  like  that  for  nigh  two  years.  Then  a  new  idea 
struck  me.  It  was  one  spring  day.  I  remember  father  and 
I  was  ploughing  for  corn.  I  said,  "Father,  if  I  could  get  a 
school,  I  guess  I  could  teach."  He  had  n't  no  more  idea  I 
could  teach  than  that  I  could  go  to  Congress,  not  a  bit; 
but  I  finally  drilled  it  into  him  I  was  in  earnest,  and  that 
fall  he  helped  me  get  a  school  near  home. 

*  I  never  did  any  work  as  hard  as  that.  It  was  against  me 
that  I  was  so  near  home,  and  everybody  knew  I  'd  never 
studied  until  just  lately.  I  could  tell  you  stories  from  now 
till  bedtime  about  the  times  I  had  with  the  big  boys  and 
girls.  But  I  never  let  go  my  main  idea  for  a  minute  —  that 
it  wasn't  just  so  much  grammar  and   'rithmetic  I  was 
tryin'  to  cram  into  them,  but  that  I  had  to  show  'em  how 
to  sense  it  all.    By  and  by,  one  after  another  found  out 
what  I  was  after.  The  bright  ones  took  to  it  like  ducks  to 
water.  It  was  just  wonderful  the  work  they  'd  do  for  me, 
once  they  understood. 

*  A  notion  took  shape  in  my  head.  For  all  I  could  see,  the 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          59 

things  to  learn  were  endless.  They  stretched  ahead  of 
me  like  a  sun-path  on  the  water.  I  thought,  "Mebbe  I 
can  go  on  learning  all  my  days.  Mebbe  I  can  teach  as  I 
learn,  so  young  folks  will  say  of  me  as  I  said  of  my  teacher, 
He  showed  me  how  to  sense  things  for  myself"  That  notion 
seemed  wonderful  good  to  me!  It  grew  stronger  an' 
stronger.  It  seemed  as  if  I  'd  fit  into  such  a  life  the  way 
a  key  fits  in  its  lock.  And  I  could  n't  see  no  reason  why  I 
should  n't  put  it  through. 

'So  I  spoke  to  father.  He  did  n't  say  much,  but  I  noticed 
he  did  n't  seem  keen  about  it.  He  'd  bought  the  store  at 
the  Corners  two  years  before,  and  it  seemed  to  me  it  would 
work  out  pretty  well  if  he  sold  the  farm  and  just  tended 
store  and  had  a  little  house  in  Garibaldi,  as  he  and  mother 
got  along  in  years. 

'I  thought  likely  Sarah  would  marry,  and  anybody  might 
be  sure  Cynthy  would.  She  an'  Sarah  had  had  two  years' 
schooling  in  Oatesville  by  this  time,  and  they  held  them 
selves  a  bit  high.  Cynthy  was  grown  up  that  pretty  and 
dainty  you  caught  your  breath  when  you  looked  at  her. 
There  's  some  young  girls  have  that  dazzling  kind  of  a  look. 
When  you  lay  eyes  on  them,  it  hardly  seems  as  if  it  could 
be  true  they  looked  like  that.  Cynthy  was  one  of  that  kind. 

'My  plans  took  shape  in  my  mind  the  second  winter  I 
taught.  I  set  my  heart  on  teaching  one  more  year  and  then 
going  to  school  somewhere  myself.  I  got  the  State  Uni 
versity  catalogue  and  began  to  plan  the  studying  I  did 
nights  so  it  would  help  me  enter. 

'It  was  just  then  that  I  ran  against  the  proposition  of 
teaching  Greek.  A  boy  from  York  State  come  out  to  spend 
the  winter  with  an  uncle  whose  farm  joined  ours.  He  'd 
lost  his  father,  and  I  guess  his  mother  did  n't  know  what  to 
do  with  him.  I  don't  mean  Dick  was  n't  a  good  boy,  but 
likely  he  was  a  handful  for  a  woman. 


60          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

*  Living  so  near,  we  saw  a  lot  of  him.    He  was  always 
coming  in  evenings  to  see  the  girls,  and  he  pretended  to  go 
to  school,  too.   He  was  sort  of  uppish  in  his  ways,  and  I 
knew  he  made  fun  of  me  and  my  teaching,  all  around 
among  the  neighbors.   What  did  he  do  one  day  but  bring 
me  some  beginning  Greek  exercises  to  look  over,  with  his 
head  in  the  air  as  if  he  was  sayin',  "  Guess  I  've  got  you 
now!" 

*I  took  his  exercises  and  looked  at  'em,  awful  wise,  and 
said  those  was  all  right,  that  time.  Bless  you,  I  didn't 
know  Alphy  from  Omegy,  but  I  meant  to,  mighty  quick! 
I  walked  seven  miles  an'  back  that  evening  to  borrow  some 
Greek  books  of  a  man  I  knew  had  'em,  and  sat  up  till  two 
o'clock,  tryin'  to  get  the  hang  of  the  alphabet. 

'Well,  sir!  I  just  pitched  into  those  books  an'  tore  the 
innards  out  of  'em,  and  then  I  pitched  into  that  fellow. 
You  'd  ought  to  have  seen  him  open  his  eyes  when  he  found 
I  knew  what  I  was  talkin'  about !  He  got  tired  of  his  Greek 
inside  of  two  weeks.  But  I  held  him  to  it.  I  made  him  keep 
right  on,  and  I  did  the  same,  and  kept  ahead  of  him. 

*  It  interested  me  awfully,  that  Greek.  I  borrowed  some 
more  books  and  got  me  some  translations.   I  don't  say  I 
got  so  I  could  read  it  easy,  but  I  got  on  to  a  lot  of  new 
ideas.  There  was  one  book  about  a  fellow  who  was  strap 
ped  to  a  rock  for  a  thousand  years  for  bringing  the  fire  of 
the  gods  to  mortals.  Probably  you  've  heard  of  it.  I  liked 
that.' 

All  this  sounded  to  me  a  good  deal  like  a  fairy-tale  the 
old  gentleman  was  telling.  Of  course,  all  education  is  so 
much  more  rigid  nowadays,  that  the  idea  of  anybody  pitch 
ing  in  that  way,  and  grabbing  the  heart  out  of  any  form 
of  knowledge  was  novel  to  me.  Yet  I  'd  read  in  the  biog 
raphies  of  great  men  that  such  things  had  really  been 
done.  Only  —  Mr.  Miles  was  n't  a  great  man.  How,  then, 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          61 


had  he  come  to  accomplish  what  I  understood  was 
tially  an  achievement  of  genius?   The  thing  staggered  me. 

'"Prometheus  Bound,"'  said  Seth  Miles  meditatively. 
*  That's  the  one.  You  may  think  I  was  conceited,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  I  knew  how  that  man  felt.  To  make  them 
look  up !  To  kindle  the  flame !  Did  n't  I  know  how  a  man 
could  long  to  do  that?  Would  n't  I,  too,  risk  the  anger  of 
the  gods  if  I  could  fire  those  children's  minds  the  way  my 
own  was  fired? 

'You  see,  it's  this  way,  Richard:  a  feeling  is  a  feeling. 
There  are  only  just  so  many  of  'em  in  the  world,  and  if  you 
know  what  any  one  of  'em  is  like,  you  do.  That's  all. 

'  When  I  spoke  to  father  about  my  plans  again,  he  looked 
as  if  I  'd  hurt  him.  A  pitiful,  caught  look  came  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  said,  "Don't  let 's  talk  about  it  now,  Seth.  I  —  I 
reelly  ain  *t  up  to  it  to-day. " 

'There  was  something  in  what  he  said,  or  the  way  he 
said  it,  that  just  seemed  to  hit  my  heart  a  smashing  blow. 
I  felt  like  I  'd  swallowed  a  pound  of  shot,  and  yet  I  did  n't 
know  why.  I  could  n't  see  anything  wrong,  nor  any  reason 
why  my  plans  was  n't  for  the  best,  for  all  of  us.  But  those 
few  words  he  said,  and  the  way  he  looked,  upset  me  so  that 
I  went  off  to  the  barn  after  school  that  afternoon  and 
climbed  into  the  hay-mow  to  find  a  quiet  place  to  figure 
the  thing  out.  I  had  n't  been  there  long  before  I  heard 
voices  down  below,  and  Cynthy's  laugh,  and  somebody 
climbing  the  ladder.  It  was  Cynthy  and  Dick.  Sarah  had 
sent  'em  out  to  hunt  more  eggs  for  a  cake  she  was  bakin'. 

'I  did  n't  think  they  'd  stay  long,  and  I  wanted  to  be 
let  alone,  so  I  just  kept  quiet. 

'Now  I  want  to  say  before  I  go  any  further  that  Dick 
would  have  been  a  great  deal  more  no-account  than  he  was 
if  he  had  n't  admired  Cynthy,  and  it  was  n't  any  wonder 
she  liked  him,  Besides  what  there  was  to  him,  there  was 


62          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

plenty  of  little  reasons,  like  the  kind  of  neckties  he  wore 
and  the  way  he  kept  his  shoes  shined.  There  was  always  a 
kind  of  style  about  Dick. 

*  They  rustled  round,  laughing  and  talking,  till  they  got 
the  five  eggs  they  was  sent  for,  and  then  Cynthy  made  as 
if  she  started  down  the  ladder.  Dick  held  her  back. 

'  "Not  till  you  've  kissed  me ! "  said  he. 

:"I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  said  she. 

'"I'm  proud  of  myself,"  said  he,  "to  think  I  know 
enough  to  want  it.  Why,  Cynthy,  I  ain't  never  had  one, 
but  I  'd  sw^ear  a  kiss  of  yours  would  be  like  the  flutter  of  an 
angel's  wing  across  my  lips." 

'"That's  foolishness,"  said  she;  but  she  said  it  softly,  as 
if  she  liked  foolishness. 

*  Mebbe  you  wonder  how  I  remember  every  little  thing 
they  said.  It 's  like  it  was  burned  into  my  brain  with  fire. 
For  I  no  sooner  heard  'em  foolin'  with  one  another  that 
soft  little  way  than  something  seemed  to  wring  my  heart 
with  such  a  twist  that  it  stopped  beating.  —  Dick  kiss 
Cynthy?    Why  —  why,  Cynthy  was  mine!   She  'd  always 
been  as  close  to  me  as  the  beat  of  my  own  heart.  From  the 
minute  I  first  laid  eyes  on  her  I  'd  known  it,  in  the  back  of 
my  mind.  I  'd  never  put  it  into  words,  not  even  to  myself. 
But  that  was  the  way  it  was.  So  now  my  soul  just  stag 
gered.  Nobody  could  kiss  Cynthy  but  me.  That  was  all. 

'"Foolishness!"  said  Dick;  his  voice  was  sort  of  thick 
and  blurry,  and,  of  a  sudden,  I  could  hear  him  breathing 
hard.  "Foolishness!  I  guess  it's  the  only  wisdom  that 
there  is!  —  My  God!  —  My  God!  —  0  Cynthy,  just  one 
kiss!" 

'"Dick!   Why,  Dick!" 

'Her  little  voice  sounded  like  the  birds  you  sometimes 
hear  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  just  that  soft,  astonished, 
questioning  note. 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          63 

*  I  suppose  I  was  across  that  mow  and  beside  'em  in  five 
seconds,  but  it  seemed  to  me  I  took  an  hour  to  cross  it. 
I  never  traveled  so  long  and  hard  a  road,  nor  one  so  beset 
with  terror  and  despair. 

'They  turned  and  faced  me  as  I  came.  Dick's  face  was 
red,  and  in  his  eyes  was  agony  —  no  less.  Cynthy  was 
very  white,  her  little  head  held  high  on  her  slender  neck. 
Her  eyes  was  brave  and  clear.  Mebbe  I  was  excited,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  she  was  shinin '  from  head  to  foot.  You 
see,  to  her  it  was  so  wonderful. 

'We  stood  there  silent  for  a  long  minute,  lookin'  clean 
into  one  another's  souls.  Dick's  eyes  and  mine  met  and 
wrestled.  I  never  fought  a  fight  like  that,  —  without  a 
word  nor  a  blow,  —  and  yet  we  were  fighting  for  more 
than  our  lives. 

'His  eyes  did  n't  fall.  He  did  n't  look  shamefaced.  Oh, 
he  too  had  pluck ! 

'As  my  brain  cleared  of  the  queer  mist,  that  cry  of  his 
seemed  to  sound  pitifully  in  my  ears. 

'"0  Cynthy r,  just  one  kiss!" 

'  I  don't  suppose  there 's  a  man  on  earth  that  ain't  said 
that  from  once  to  fifty  times,  just  as  much  in  earnest  as 
Dick,  and  just  as  little  thinkin'  them  words  are  the  key  in 
the  Door  —  the  door  that  gives  on  the  road  runnin '  down 
to  Hell  or  up  to  Heaven.  You  've  got  to  move  one  way  or 
the  other  if  you  open  that  door.  It  ain't  a  road  to  linger 
on.  Love  marches. 

'That  was  the  way  it  come  to  me  then.  For  most  men, 
love  marches.  —  But  me.  How  about  me?  The  love  that 
come  to  me  had  been  silent  and  patient.  It  'd  sat  in  my 
heart  like  a  bird  on  its  nest.  Was  I  different  from  other 
men?  Did  I  ask  less,  give  more?  I  was  just  a  boy  —  how 
was  I  to  know? 

'It  was  Cynthy  broke  the  tension.  She  was  always  a  bit 


64          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

of  a  mischief.  Suddenly  she  smiled  an*  dimpled  like  the  sun 
comin'  out  from  a  cloud.  She  caught  Dick's  finger-tips 
quick  an'  brushed  'em  across  her  lips. 

'"Well,  Seth!"  she  says  to  me,  cheerful  and  confident 
again. 

' "  Is  he  your  choice,  Cynthy ?  "  said  I.  "  Dare  you  leave 
us  —  all  of  us  —  an'  go  to  him  forever?"  I  asked  her, 
steadying  my  voice. 

'She  looked  a  little  hurt  and  a  little  puzzled. 

'"Has  it  come  to  that?"  she  asked  me. 

'"Mebbe  it  has  n't  with  you,"  I  answered,  "but  it  has 
with  Dick  —  an'  with  me,  Cynthy." 

'  She  looked  at  me  as  if  she  did  n't  know  what  I  meant, 
and  then  the  color  rushed  up  into  her  face  in  a  glorious 
flood. 

'"Not  — not  you  too,  Seth?"  she  cried.  "Oh  — not 
you  too!" 

' "Yes,  Cynthy,  —  now  and  always." 

'She  looked  from  me  to  Dick  an'  back  to  me  again. 
In  her  face  I  saw  she  was  uncertain. 

' "  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  before?  "  she  cried  out  sharp 
ly.  "Why  didn't  —  you  —  teach  me?  O  Seth,  he  needs 
me  most!" 

'Dick's  eyes  and  mine  met  and  clashed  again  like  steel 
on  steel.  But  it  was  mine  that  fell  at  last. 

'We  all  went  back  to  the  house  together  without  saying 
any  more. 

'It  come  to  me  just  like  this.  Dick  was  tangled  in  his 
feelings,  and  the  feelings  are  the  strongest  cords  that  ever 
bind  a  boy  like  him.  Cynthy  was  drawn  to  him,  because 
to  her  Dick  was  a  thing  of  splendor  and  it  was  so  wonderful 
he  needed  her!  I  need  n't  tell  you  what  it  was  tied  me.  I 
still  had  a  fighting  chance  to  get  her  away  from  him,  but 
was  it  fair  of  me  to  make  the  fight? 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          65 

*  Every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  said,  Yes !  Every  cell 
in  my  brain  said,  No !  For,  you  see,  life  had  us  in  a  net  — 
but  I  was  the  strong  one  and  /  could  break  the  net. 

'  I  went  off  and  walked  by  myself.  Sundown  come,  and 
milking-time,  and  supper.  But  I  forgot  to  eat  or  work. 
I  walked. 

*  No  man  can  tell  you  what  he  thinks  and  feels  in  hours 
like  them.  There  ain't  no  words  for  the  awful  hopes  or  the 
black  despairs  or  the  gleams  that  begin  like  lightning- 
flashes  and  grow  to  something  like  the  breaking  dawn. 
I  could  n't  get  away  from  it  anyhow  I  turned.   It  was  n't 
a  situation  I  dared  leave  alone,  not  with  Dick  at  white 
heat  and  Cynthy  so  confident  of  herself  and  so  pitiful. 
It  was  n't  safe  to  let  things  be.  I  must  snatch  her  from  him 
or  give  her  to  him.  —  It  was  my  turn  now  to  cry  out,  0 
my  God! 

'  'T  was  long  after  dark  when  I  come  back.  My  mind 
was  made  up.  They  should  have  each  other.  I  'd  do  what 
I  could  to  make  the  thing  easy.  "After  all,"  I  told  myself, 
"you  ain't  completely  stripped.  Don't  think  it!  You 
have  the  other  thing.  You  can  carry  the  torch.  You  can 
bring  down  the  flame.  Folks  will  thank  you  yet  for  the 
sacred  fire!" 

*  I  laid  that  thought  to  my  heart  like  something  cool  and 
comforting.  And  it  helped  me  to  come  through. 

'When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  it  was  late  and  everybody 
was  abed  but  my  father.  He  was  sitting  right  here  where 
we  are,  waiting  up  for  me.  There  was  a  moon,  some  past 
the  full,  rising  yonder.  I  sat  down  on  the  step  below  him 
and  put  it  to  him  straight. 

' " Father,"  said  I,  "  Dick  's  in  love  with  Cynthy.  She's 
eighteen  an'  he  's  twenty.  I  judge  we  'd  better  help  'em 
marry." 

'He  give  a  heartbroken  kind  of  groan.   "Don't  I  know 


66          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

she  's  eighteen?"  he  said.  "Ain't  it  worryin'  the  life  right 
out  of  me?" 

'"Whatever  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  pretty  sharp,  for  I 
sensed  bad  trouble  in  his  very  voice. 

* "  It 's  her  two  thousand  dollars,"  he  said.  "  She 's  due  to 
have  it.  If  she  marries,  she  's  got  to  have  it  right  away. 
And  I  ain't  got  it  to  give  her,  that 's  all!" 

* "  Where  is  it?  What 's  become  of  it ? " 

:"I  bought  the  store  at  the  Crossroads  with  it,  and  give 
her  my  note.  But  I  had  n't  no  business  to  do  it  that  way. 
And  the  store  ain't  done  well,  and  the  farm  ain't  done 
well.  The  summer  's  been  so  cold  and  wet,  corn  ain't 
more  'n  a  third  of  a  crop,  and  I  put  in  mainly  corn  this 
year.  I  can't  sell  the  store.  I  dunno  's  I  can  mortgage  the 
farm.  I  dunno  what  to  do.  If  you  leave  home  like  you  talk 
of,  I  shall  go  under.  Somebody  's  got  to  take  hold  an'  help 
me.  I  can't  carry  my  load  no  longer." 

*  So  —  there  was  that !  And  I  had  to  face  it  alone. 

*I  did  n't  despair  over  the  money  part  of  it,  like  father 
did.  I  knew  he  'd  neglected  the  farm  for  the  store,  and  the 
store  for  the  farm.  If  I  'd  been  with  him  either  place,  in 
stead  of  teaching,  things  would  have  gone  on  all  right.  I 
thought  Dick  could  have  his  choice  of  the  store  or  a  part  of 
the  land  to  clear  up  the  debt  to  Cynthy.  But,  whichever 
he  took,  father  'd  need  me  to  help  out.  I  could  see  he  was 
beginning  to  break.  And  Dick  would  need  me  too,  till  he 
got  broke  in  to  work  and  earnin'.  So  —  now  it  was  me  that 
life  had  in  the  net,  and  there  was  no  way  I  could  break  out. 

*  Father  went  off  to  bed  a  good  deal  happier  after  I  told 
him  I  'd  stand  by.  He  even  chippered  up  so  he  said  this : 
"You  're  all  right,  Seth,  and  teachin'  's  all  right.  But  I  've 
thought  it  all  over  and  I  've  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
teachin'  and  studyin'  's  like  hard  cider.    It  goes  to  your 
head  and  makes  you  feel  good,  but  after  all,  there  ain't 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE          67 

nothing  nourishing  about  it.  I  'd  like  to  see  you  make  some 
money." 

*  I  sat  on  those  steps  the  rest  of  the  night,  I  guess,  while 
that  waning  moon  climbed  up  the  sky  and  then  dropped 
down  again.   'T  ain't  often  a  man  is  called  on  to  fight  two 
such  fights  in  a  single  day.   I  ain't  been  able  to  look  at  a 
moon  past  the  full  since  that  night. 

'And  yet  —  toward  morning  there  come  peace.  I  saw  it 
this  way  at  last.  To  help  is  bigger  yet  than  to  teach.  If 
Prometheus  could  be  chained  to  that  rock  a  thousand 
years  while  the  vultures  tore  his  vitals  just  so  that  men 
might  know,  could  n't  I  bear  the  beaks  an'  the  claws  a  little 
lifetime  so  that  father  and  Cynthy  and  Dick  might  live  ? 
I  thought  I  could  —  an'  I  have.' 

Mr.  Miles  stopped  short.  Something  gripped  my  throat. 
I  shall  never  see  again  such  a  luminous  look  as  I  caught  on 
his  face  when  he  turned  it  toward  the  darkening  west. 
The  black  clouds  had  rolled  up  rapidly  while  we  were  talk 
ing  and,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  when  he  had  finished,  it  thun 
dered  on  the  right! 

4 Is  — is  that  all?'  I  said  chokily. 

*  Cynthy 's  had  a  happy  life,'  he  said.    *  Dick  made  good 
in  the  store,  and  he  's  made  good  out  yonder  in  the  world. 
Dick  has  gone  very  far.   And  as  for  me,  there  's  only  one 
thing  more  I  want  in  this  world.   If  —  if  I  could  see  her 
boy  and  his  pick  up  the  torch  I  dropped,  and  carry  on  that 
sacred  fire — ' 

It  was  mighty  queer,  but  I  found  I  was  shaking  all  over 
with  an  excitement  I  hardly  understood.  Something  that 
had  been  hovering  in  the  air  while  he  talked  came  closer 
and  suddenly  showed  me  its  face. 

'But,'  I  said  thick  and  fast,  'but  —  why,  mother's  name 
is  Cynthia!' 


68          SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 

4  Yes,  Richard.' 

'And  father—  father—?' 

'Yes,  Richard/ 

It  was  my  turn  to  feel  something  squeeze  my  heart  as  in 
two  hands.  I  '11  never  tell  you  how  I  felt!  For  I  saw  a 
thousand  things  at  once.  I  saw  what  dad  meant  by  my 
touching  life.  And  I  saw  the  meaning  of  the  path  I  had 
chosen  blindly.  Before  me,  like  a  map,  were  spread  their 
lives  and  mine,  to-day  and  yesterday.  I  shook  with  the  pas 
sions  that  had  created  me.  I  vibrated  with  the  sacrifices 
that  had  gone  to  make  me  possible.  For  the  first  time  in  all 
my  days  I  got  a  glimpse  of  what  the  young  generation 
means  to  the  elder.  On  my  head  had  descended  all  their 
hopes.  I  was  the  laden  ship  that  carried  their  great  desires. 
Mine  to  lift  the  torch  for  all  of  them  —  and  thank  God  for 
the  chance! 

I  struck  my  tears  away  and  reached  out  blindly  to  grasp 
Seth  Miles's  bony  hand.  I  guess  he  knew  I  meant  it. 


BURIED  TREASURE 

BY   MAZO    DE    LA    ROCHE 


IT  was  Saturday  morning,  and  we  three  were  together  in 
Mrs.  Handsomebody's  parlor  —  Angel,  and  The  Seraph, 
and  I. 

No  sooner  had  the  front  door  closed  upon  the  tall,  angular 
figure  of  that  lady,  bearing  her  market  basket,  than  we 
shut  our  books  with  a  snap,  ran  on  tiptoe  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  and,  after  a  moment's  breathless  listening,  cast  our 
young  forms  on  the  smooth  walnut  banister,  and  glided 
gloriously  to  the  bottom. 

Regularly  on  a  Saturday  morning  Mrs.  Handsomebody 
went  to  market,  and  with  equal  regularity  we,  her  pupils, 
instantly  cast  off  the  yoke  of  her  restraint,  slid  down 
the  banisters,  and  entered  the  forbidden  precincts  of  the 
Parlor. 

On  other  week-days  the  shutters  of  this  grim  apartment 
were  kept  closed,  and  an  inquisitive  eye,  applied  to  the 
keyhole,  could  just  faintly  discern  the  portrait  in  crayon 
of  the  late  Mr.  Handsomebody,  presiding,  like  some  whis 
kered  ghost,  over  the  revels  of  the  stuffed  birds  in  the 
glass  case  below  him. 

But  on  a  Saturday  morning  Mary  Ellen  swept  and 
dusted  there.  The  shutters  were  thrown  open,  and  the 
thin-legged  piano  and  the  haircloth  furniture  were  fur 
bished  up  for  the  morrow. 

Moreover,  Mary  Ellen  liked  our  company.  She  had  a 
spooky  feeling  about  the  parlor.  Mr.  Handsomebody  gave 
her  the  creeps,  she  said;  and  once  when  she  had  turned  her 


70  BURIED  TREASURE 

back  she  had  heard  one  of  the  stuffed  birds  twitter.  It 
was  a  gruesome  thought. 

When  we  bounded  in  on  her,  Mary  Ellen  was  dragging 
the  broom  feebly  across  the  gigantic  green-and-red  lilies 
of  the  carpet,  her  bare  red  arms  moving  like  listless  an 
tennae.  She  could,  when  she  willed,  work  vigorously  and 
well ;  but  no  one  knew  when  a  heavy  mood  might  seize  her, 
and  render  her  as  useless  as  was  compatible  with  retaining 
her  situation. 

'  Och,  byes ! '  she  groaned,  leaning  on  her  broom.  *  This 
spring  weather  do  be  makin'  me  as  wake  as  a  blind  kitten ! 
Sure,  I  feel  this  mornin'  like  as  if  I  'd  a  stone  settin*  on  my 
stomach,  an'  me  head  feels  as  light  as  thistledown.  I 
wisht  the  missus  'd  fergit  to  come  home  an'  I  could  take  a 
day  off  —  but  there  's  no  such  luck  for  Mary  Ellen ! ' 

She  made  a  few  more  passes  with  her  broom  and  then 
sighed. 

'I  think  I  '11  soon  be  leavin'  this  place,'  she  said. 

A  vision  of  the  house  without  the  cheering  presence  of 
Mary  Ellen  rose  blackly  before  us.  We  crowded  round 
her. 

'Now,  see  here,'  said  Angel  masterfully,  putting  his 
arms  about  her  stout  waist.  '  You  know  perfectly  well  that 
father  's  coming  back  from  South  America  soon  to  make  a 
home  for  us,  and  that  you  are  to  come  and  be  our  cook,  and 
make  apple-dumplings,  and  have  all  the  followers  you  like.' 

Now  Angel  knew  whereof  he  spoke,  for  Mary  Ellen's 
*  followers '  were  a  bone  of  contention  between  her  and  her 
mistress. 

'Aw,  Master  Angel,'  she  expostulated,  'what  a  tongue 
ye  have  in  yer  head  to  be  sure !  Followers,  is  it?  Sure,  they 
're  the  bane  o'  me  life!  Now  git  out  o'  the  way  o'  the  dust, 
all  of  yez,  or  I  '11  put  a  tin  ear  on  ye ! '  And  she  began  to 
swing  her  broom  vigorously. 


BURIED  TREASURE  71 

We  ran  to  the  window  and  looked  out;  but  no  sooner 
had  we  looked  out  than  we  whistled  with  astonishment  at 
what  we  saw. 

But  first,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  street  on  which  we 
lived  ran  east  and  west.  On  the  corner  to  the  west  of  Mrs. 
Handsomebody's  house  was  the  gray  old  cathedral;  next 
to  it  was  the  Bishop's  house,  of  gray  stone  also;  then  a  pair 
of  dingy,  white  brick  houses  exactly  alike.  In  one  of  these 
we  lived  with  Mrs.  Handsomebody,  and  the  other  was  the 
home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  Pegg  and  their  three  ser 
vants. 

To  us  they  seemed  very  elegant,  if  somewhat  uninter 
esting  people.  Mrs.  Mortimer  Pegg  frequently  had  car 
riage  callers,  and  not  seldom  sallied  forth  herself  in  a  sedate 
victoria  from  the  livery  stables.  But  beyond  an  occasional 
flutter  of  excitement  when  their  horses  stopped  at  our  very 
gate,  there  was  little  in  this  prim  couple  to  interest  us.  So 
neat  and  precise  were  they  as  they  tripped  down  the  street 
together,  that  we  called  them  (out  of  Mrs.  Handsome- 
body's  hearing)  Mr.  and  Mrs.  'Cribbage  Pegg.' 

Now,  on  this  morning  in  early  spring  when  we  looked  out 
of  the  window,  our  eyes  discovered  an  object  of  such  com 
pelling  interest  in  the  Peggs'  front  garden  that  we  rubbed 
them  again  to  make  sure  that  we  were  broad  awake. 

Striding  up  and  down  the  small  enclosure  was  a  tall  old 
man  wearing  a  brilliant-hued,  flowered  dressing-gown  that 
hung  open  at  the  neck,  disclosing  his  long  brown  throat 
and  hairy  chest,  and  flapped  negligently  about  his  heels 
as  he  strode. 

He  had  bushy  iron-gray  hair  and  moustache,  and  tufts 
of  curly  gray  beard  grew  around  his  chin  and  ears.  His 
nose  was  large  and  sunburned;  and  every  now  and  again 
he  would  stop  in  his  caged-animal  walk  and  sniff  the  air 
as  though  he  liked  it. 


72  BURIED  TREASURE 

I  liked  the  old  gentleman  from  the  start. 

'Oo-o!  See  the  funny  old  man!'  giggled  The  Seraph. 
'Coat  like  Jacob  an'  his  bwethern!' 

Angel  and  I  plied  Mary  Ellen  with  questions.  Who  was 
he?  Did  he  live  with  the  Peggs?  Did  she  think  he  was  a 
foreigner? 

Mary  Ellen,  supported  by  her  broom,  stared  out  of  the 
window. 

'  For  th'  love  of  Hiven!'  she  ejaculated.  'If  that  ain't 
a  sight  now!  Byes,  it 's  Mr.  Pegg's  own  father  come  home 
from  somewheres  in  th'  Indies.  Their  cook  was  tellin'  me 
of  the  time  they  have  wid  him.  He  's  a  bit  light-headed, 
y'  see,  an'  has  all  his  meals  in  his  own  room  —  th'  quarest 
dishes  iver  —  an'  a  starlin'  for  a  pet,  mind  ye ! ' 

At  that  moment  the  old  gentleman  perceived  that  he 
was  watched,  and  saluting  Mary  Ellen  gallantly,  he  called 
out, — 

'Good  morning,  madam!' 

Mary  Ellen,  covered  with  confusion,  drew  back  behind 
the  curtain.  I  was  about  to  make  a  suitable  reply  when  I 
saw  Mrs.  Mortimer  Pegg,  herself,  emerge  from  her  house 
with  a  very  red  face,  and  resolutely  grasp  her  father-in- 
law's  arm.  She  spoke  to  him  in  a  rapid  undertone,  and, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  followed  her  meekly  into 
the  house. 

How  I  sympathized  with  him !  I  knew  only  too  well  the 
humiliation  experienced  by  the  helpless  male  when  over 
bearing  woman  drags  him  ignominiously  from  his  harmless 
recreation.  A  bond  of  understanding  seemed  to  be  estab 
lished  between  us  at  once. 

The  voice  of  Mary  Ellen  broke  in  on  my  reverie.  She 
was  teasing  Angel  to  sing. 

'Aw,  give  us  a  chune,  Master  Angel,  before  th'  missus 
gets  back !  There  's  a  duck !  I  '11  give  ye  a  pocketful  of 
raisins  as  sure  's  fate ! ' 


BURIED  TREASURE  73 

Angel  was  the  possessor  of  a  flute-like  treble,  and  he 
could  strum  some  sort  of  accompaniment  on  the  piano  to 
any  song.  It  was  Mary  Ellen's  delight  on  a  Saturday 
morning  to  pour  forth  her  pent-up  feelings  in  one  of  the 
popular  songs,  with  Angel  to  keep  her  on  the  tune  and 
thump  a  chord  or  two. 

It  was  a  risky  business.  But  The  Seraph  mounted  guard 
at  the  window  while  I  pressed  my  nose  against  the  glass 
case  which  held  the  stuffed  birds,  and  wondered  if  by 
chance  any  of  them  had  come  from  South  America  where 
father  was. 

Tum-te-tum-te-tum,  strummed  Angel. 

'  Casey  would  waltz  with  the  strawberry  blonde, 
And  the  —  band  —  played  —  on.' 

His  sweet  reedy  tones  thrilled  the  April  air. 

And  Mary  Ellen's  voice,  robust  as  the  whistle  of  a  loco 
motive,  bursting  with  health  and  spirits,  shook  the  very 
cobwebs  that  she  had  not  swept  down. 

*  Casey  would  waltz  wid  th'  strawberry  blonde, 
And  —  the  —  band  —  play  —  don!' 

Generally  we  had  a  faithful  subordinate  in  The  Seraph. 
He  had  a  rather  sturdy  sense  of  honor.  On  this  spring 
morning,  however,  I  think  that  the  singing  of  Mary  Ellen 
must  have  dulled  his  sensibilities,  for,  instead  of  keeping  a 
bright  lookout  up  the  street  for  the  dreaded  form  of  Mrs. 
Handsomebody,  he  lolled  across  the  window-sill,  dangling 
a  piece  of  string,  with  the  April  sunshine  warming  his 
rounded  back. 

And  as  he  dangled  the  string,  Mrs.  Handsomebody  drew 
nearer  and  nearer.  She  entered  the  gate  —  she  entered  the 
house  —  she  was  in  the  parlor ! 

Angel  and  Mary  Ellen  had  just  given  their  last  trium 
phant  shout,  when  Mrs.  Handsomebody  said  in  a  voice  of 
cold  fury,  — 


74  BURIED  TREASURE 

'Mary  Ellen,  kindly  cease  that  ribald  screaming.  David 
[David  is  Angel's  proper  name],  get  up  instantly  from  that 
piano  stool  and  face  me!  John,  Alexander,  face  me!' 

We  did  so  tremblingly. 

'Now/  said  Mrs.  Handsomebody,  'you  three  boys  go 
up  to  your  bedroom  —  not  to  the  schoolroom,  mind  —  and 
don't  let  me  hear  another  sound  from  you  to-day!  You 
shall  get  no  dinner.  At  four  I  will  come  and  discuss  your 
disgraceful  conduct  with  you.  Now  march!' 

She  held  the  door  open  for  us  while  we  filed  sheepishly 
under  her  arm.  Then  the  door  closed  behind  us  with  a 
decisive  bang,  and  poor  Mary  Ellen  was  left  in  the  torture- 
chamber  with  Mrs.  Handsomebody  and  the  stuffed  birds. 


ii 


Angel  and  I  scurried  up  the  stairway.  We  could  hear 
The  Seraph  panting  as  he  labored  after  us. 

Once  in  the  haven  of  our  little  room,  we  rolled  in  a  con 
fused  heap  on  the  bed,  scuffling  indiscriminately.  Such  a 
punishment  was  not  new  to  us.  It  was  a  favorite  one  with 
Mrs.  Handsomebody,  and  we  had  a  suspicion  that  she 
relished  the  fact  that  so  much  food  was  saved  when  we 
went  dinnerless.  At  any  rate,  we  were  not  allowed  to  make 
up  the  deficiency  at  tea-time. 

We  always  passed  the  hours  of  our  confinement  on  the 
bed,  for  the  room  was  very  small  and  the  one  window 
stared  blankly  at  the  window  of  an  unused  room  in  the 
Peggs'  house,  which  blankly  returned  the  stare. 

But  these  were  not  dull  times  for  us.  As  Elizabethan 
actors,  striding  about  their  bare  stage,  conjured  up  brave 
pictures  of  gilded  halls  or  leafy  forest  glades,  so  we  little 
fellows  made  a  castle  stronghold  of  our  bed;  or  better 
still,  a  gallant  frigate  that  sailed  beyond  the  barren  walls 


BURIED  TREASURE  75 

into  unknown  seas  of  adventure,  and  anchored  at  last 
off  some  rocky  island  where  treasure  lay  hidden  among  the 

hills. 

What  brave  fights  with  pirates  there  were,  when  Angel 
as  captain,  I  as  mate,  with  The  Seraph  for  a  cabin-boy, 
fought  the  bloody  pirate  gangs  on  those  surf-washed 
shores,  and  gained  the  fight,  though  far  outnumbered! 

They  were  not  dull  times  in  that  small  back  room,  but 
gay-colored,  lawless  times,  when  our  fancy  was  let  free, 
and  we  fought  on  empty  stomachs,  and  felt  only  the  wind 
in  our  faces,  and  heard  the  creak  of  straining  cordage. 
What  if  we  were  on  half -rations ! 

On  this  particular  morning,  however,  there  was  some 
thing  to  be  disposed  of  before  we  got  to  business :  to  wit, 
the  rank  insubordination  of  The  Seraph.  It  was  not  to  be 
dealt  with  too  lightly.  Angel  sat  up  with  a  disheveled 

head. 

'Get  up!'  he  commanded  The  Seraph,  who  obeyed  won- 

deringly. 

'Now,  my  man/  continued  Angel,  with  the  scowl  that 
had  made  him  dreaded  the  South  Seas  over,  'have  you 
anything  to  say  for  yourself?' 

The  Seraph  hung  his  head. 

'I  was  on'y  danglin'  a  bit  o'  stwing,'  he  murmured. 

'String!'  repeated  Angel,  the  scowl  deepening;  'dangling 
a  bit  of  string!  You  may  be  dangling  yourself  at  the  end 
of  a  rope  before  the  sun  sets,  my  hearty !  Here  we  are  with 
out  any  dinner,  all  along  of  you.  Now  see  here,  you  '11 
go  right  over  into  that  corner  by  the  window  with  your 
face  to  the  wall  and  stand  there  all  the  time  John  and  I 
play!  An'  —  an'  you  won't  know  what  we  're  doing  nor 
where  we  're  going  nor  anything  —  so  there!' 

The  Seraph  went,  weeping  bitterly.  He  hid  his  face  in 
the  dusty  lace  window-curtain.  He  looked  very  small.  I 


76  BURIED  TREASURE 

could  not  help  remembering  how  father  had  said  we  were 
to  take  care  of  him  and  not  make  him  cry. 

Somehow  that  morning  things  went  ill  with  the  adven 
ture.  The  savor  had  gone  out  of  our  play.  Two  were  but  a 
paltry  company  after  all.  Where  was  the  cabin-boy  with 
his  trusty  dirk,  eager  to  bleed  for  the  cause?  Though  we 
kept  our  backs  rigorously  turned  to  the  window,  and  spoke 
only  in  whispers,  neither  of  us  was  quite  able  to  forget  the 
presence  of  that  dejected  little  figure. 

After  a  bit  The  Seraph's  whimpering  ceased,  and  what 
was  our  surprise  to  hear  the  chuckling  laugh  with  which  he 
was  wont  to  signify  his  pleasure! 

We  turned  to  look  at  him.  His  face  was  pressed  to  the 
window,  and  again  he  giggled  rapturously. 

'What 's  up,  kid?'  we  demanded. 

'Ole  Joseph-an'-his-bwethern,'  he  sputtered,  'winkin' 
an5  wavin'  hands  wiv  me!' 

We  were  at  his  side  like  a  shot,  and  there,  in  the  hitherto 
blank  window  of  the  Peggs'  house,  stood  the  old  gentle 
man  of  the  flowered  dressing-gown,  laughing  and  nod 
ding  at  The  Seraph.  When  he  saw  us  he  made  a  sign  to 
us  to  open  our  window,  and  at  the  same  instant  raised  his 
own. 

It  took  the  three  of  us  to  accomplish  it,  for  the  window 
moved  unreadily,  being  seldom  raised,  as  Mrs.  Handsome- 
body  regarded  fresh  air  much  as  she  regarded  a  small  boy, 
as  something  to  be  kept  in  its  place. 

At  last  the  window  rose,  protesting  and  creaking,  and 
the  next  moment  we  were  face  to  face  with  our  new  ac 
quaintance. 

Hello! '  he  said,  in  a  loud,  jovial  voice. 

'Hello!'  said  we;  and  stared. 

He  had  a  strong,  weather-beaten  face,  and  wide-open, 
light  eyes,  blue  and  wild  as  the  sea 


BURIED  TREASURE  77 

*  Hello,  boy!'  he  repeated,  looking  at  Angel.  'What 's 
your  name?' 

Now  Angel  was  shy  with  strangers,  so  I  usually  answered 
questions. 

'His  name/  I  replied  then,  'is  David  Curzon;  but  mother 
called  him  Angel,  so  we  jus'  keep  on  doing  it.' 

'Oh,'  said  the  old  gentleman.  Then  he  fixed  The  Seraph 
with  his  eye.  'What 's  the  bantling's  name?' 

The  Seraph,  mightily  confused  at  being  called  a  bantling, 
giggled  inanely,  so  I  replied  again. 

'His  name  is  Alexander  Curzon,  but  mother  called  him 
The  Seraph,  so  we  jus'  keep  on  doing  it  too.' 

'Um-hm,'  assented  the  old  gentleman;  'and  you  — 
what 's  your  name? ' 

'John,'  I  replied. 

'Oh,'  he  said,  with  an  odd  little  smile,  'and  what  do  they 
keep  on  calling  you? ' 

'Just  John,'  I  answered  firmly,  'nothing  else.' 

'Who  's  your  father?'  came  the  next  question. 

'He  's  David  Curzon,  senior,'  I  said  proudly,  'and  he  's 
in  South  America  building  a  railroad,  an'  Mrs.  Handsome- 
body  used  to  be  his  governess  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  so 
he  left  us  with  her;  but  some  day,  pretty  soon,  I  think, 
he  's  coming  back  to  make  a  really  home  for  us  with  rab 
bits  an'  puppies  an'  pigeons  an'  things.' 

Our  new  friend  nodded  sympathetically.  Then,  quite 
suddenly,  he  asked,  — 

'Where  's  your  mother?' 

'She  's  in  heaven,'  I  answered  simply.  'She  went  there 
two  years  ago.' 

'Yes,'  broke  in  The  Seraph  eagerly,  'but  she  's  comin' 
back  some  day  to  make  a  weally  home  for  us.' 

'Shut  up!'  said  Angel  gruffly,  poking  him  with  his 
elbow. 


78  BURIED  TREASURE 

'The  Seraph  's  very  little,'  I  explained  apologetically; 
'he  does  n't  understand/ 

The  old  gentleman  put  his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his 
dressing-gown. 

'Bantling,'  he  said  with  his  droll  smile,  'do  you  like  pep 
permint  bull's-eyes?' 

'  Yes,'  said  The  Seraph, '  I  like  them — one  for  each  of  us.' 

Whereupon  this  extraordinary  man  began  throwing 
us  peppermints  as  fast  as  we  could  catch  them.  It  was  sur 
prising  how  we  began  to  feel  at  home  with  him,  as  though 
we  had  known  him  for  years. 

He  had  traveled  all  over  the  world,  it  seemed,  and  he 
brought  many  curious  things  to  the  window  to  show  us. 
One  of  these  was  a  starling,  whose  wicker  cage  he  placed  on 
the  sill  where  the  sunlight  fell. 

He  had  got  the  bird,  he  said,  from  one  of  the  crew  of  a 
trading  vessel  off  the  coast  of  Java.  The  sailor  had  brought 
it  all  the  way  from  Devon  for  company;  and  he  added, 
'The  brute  had  put  out  both  its  eyes  so  that  it  would  learn 
to  talk  more  readily;  so  now,  you  see,  the  poor  little  fellow 
is  quite  blind.' 

'  Blind  —  blind  —  blind ! '  echoed  the  starling  briskly,  — 
'blind  — blind  — blind!' 

He  took  it  from  its  cage  on  his  finger.  It  hopped  up  his 
arm  till  it  reached  his  cheek,  and  there  it  began  to  peck 
at  his  whiskers,  crying  all  the  while  in  its  shrill,  lonely 
tones,  '  Blind  —  blind  —  blind ! ' 

We  three  were  entranced;  and  an  idea  that  was  swiftly 
forming  in  my  mind  struggled  for  expression. 

If  this  wonderful  old  man  had,  as  he  said,  sailed  the  seas 
from  Land's  End  to  Ceylon,  was  it  not  possible  that  he 
had  seen,  even  fought  with,  real  pirates?  Might  he  not 
have  followed  hot  on  the  trail  of  hidden  treasure?  My 
cheeks  burned  as  I  tried  to  put  the  question. 


BURIED  TREASURE  79 

'Did  you,'  I  began,  —  'did  you  —  ' 

*  Well? '  he  encouraged.  '  Did  I  what,  John? ' 

'Oh,  did  you/  I  burst  out,  'ever  see  a  pirate  ship,  an* 
pirates  —  real  ones? ' 

His  face  lit  up. 

'Surely,'  he  replied  casually,  'many  an  one.' 

'Praps,'  ventured  Angel,  with  an  excited  laugh,  'praps 
you  're  one  yourself!' 

The  old  gentleman  searched  our  eager  faces  with  his 
wide-open,  sea-blue  eyes;  then  he  looked  cautiously  into 
the  room  behind  him,  and,  being  apparently  satisfied  that 
no  one  could  overhear,  he  put  his  hand  to  the  side  of  his 
mouth,  and  said  in  a  loud,  hoarse  whisper,  — 

'That  I  am.   Pirate  as  ever  was !' 

I  think  you  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather. 
I  know  my  knees  shook  and  the  room  reeled.  The  Seraph 
was  the  first  to  recover,  piping  cheerfully,  — 

'I  yike  piwates!' 

'Yes,'  repeated  the  old  gentleman,  reflectively,  'pirate 
as  ever  was.  The  things  I  Ve  seen  and  done  would  fill  the 
biggest  book  you  ever  saw,  and  it  'd  make  your  hair  stand 
on  end  to  read  it  —  what  with  fights,  and  murders,  and 
hangings,  and  storms,  and  shipwreck,  and  the  hunt  for 
gold !  Many  a  sweet  schooner  or  frigate  I  Ve  sunk,  or 
taken  for  myself,  and  there  is  n't  a  port  on  the  South  Seas 
where  women  don't  hush  their  children's  crying  with  the 
fear  of  Captain  Pegg!' 

Then  he  added  hastily,  as  though  he  feared  he  had  gone 
too  far,  • — 

'But  I  'm  a  changed  man,  mark  you  —  a  reformed  man. 
If  things  suit  me  pretty  well  here,  I  don't  think  I  shall 
break  out  again.  It  is  just  that  you  chaps  seem  so  sym 
pathetic,  makes  me  tell  you  all  this;  but  you  must  swear 
never  to  breathe  a  word  of  it,  for  no  one  knows  but  you. 


80  BURIED  TREASURE 

My  son  and  daughter-in-law  think  I  'm  an  archaeologist. 
It  'd  be  an  awful  shock  to  them  to  find  that  I  'm  a  pirate.' 

We  swore  the  blackest  secrecy,  and  were  about  to  ply 
him  with  a  hundred  questions,  when  we  saw  a  maid  carry 
ing  a  large  tray  enter  the  room  behind  him. 

Captain  Pegg,  as  I  must  now  call  him,  gave  us  a  gesture 
of  warning  and  began  to  lower  his  window.  A  pleasant 
aroma  of  roast  beef  came  across  the  alley.  The  next  in 
stant  the  flowered  dressing-gown  had  disappeared  and  the 
window  opposite  stared  blankly  as  before. 

Angel  drew  a  deep  breath.  'Did  you  notice,'  he  said, 
'how  different  he  got  once  he  had  told  us  he  was  a  pirate  — 
wilder  and  rougher,  and  used  more  sailor  words?' 

'However  did  you  guess  it  first?'  I  asked  admiringly. 

'I  think  I  know  a  pirate  when  I  see  one,'  he  returned 
loftily.  'But  oh,  I  say,  would  n't  Mrs.  Handsomebody  be 
waxy  if  she  knew?' 

'An'  would  n't  Mary  Ellen  be  scared  stiff  if  she  knew?' 

'  An'  won't  we  have  fun  ?  Hurray ! ' 

We  rolled  in  ecstasy  on  the  much-enduring  bed. 

We  talked  excitedly  of  the  possibilities  of  such  a  wonder 
ful  and  dangerous  friendship.  And  as  it  turned  out,  none 
of  our  imaginings  equaled  what  really  happened. 

The  afternoon  passed  quickly.  As  the  hands  of  our  alarm 
clock  neared  the  hour  of  four  we  obliterated  the  traces  of 
our  sojourn  on  the  bed  as  well  as  we  could;  and  when  Mrs. 
Handsomebody  entered,  she  found  us  sitting  in  a  row  in 
the  three  cane-bottomed  chairs  on  which  we  hung  our 
clothes  at  night. 

The  scolding  she  gave  us  was  even  longer  and  more 
humiliating  to  our  manhood  than  usual.  She  shook  her 
hard  white  finger  near  our  faces,  and  said  that  for  very 
little  she  would  write  to  our  father  and  complain  of  our 
actions. 


BURIED  TREASURE  81 

'Now,'  she  said,  in  conclusion,  'give  your  faces  and 
hands  a  thorough  washing,  and  comb  your  hair,  which  is 
disgraceful;  then  come  quietly  down  to  tea.' 

The  door  closed  behind  her. 

'What  beats  me,'  said  Angel,  lathering  his  hands,  'is 
why  that  one  white  hair  on  her  chin  wiggles  so  when  she 
jaws  us.  I  can't  keep  my  eyes  off  it.' 

'It  wiggles,'  piped  The  Seraph,  as  he  dragged  a  brush 
over  his  curls,  '  'cos  it 's  nervous,  an'  I  wiggle  when  she 
scolds,  too,  'cos  I  'ra  nervous.' 

'Don't  you  worry,  old  man,'  Angel  responded  gayly, 
'we  '11  take  care  of  you.' 

We  were  in  fine  spirits  despite  our  scolding.  Indeed,  we 
almost  pitied  Mrs.  Handsomebody  for  her  ignorance  of 
the  wonders  among  which  she  had  her  being. 

Here  she  was,  fussing  over  some  stuffed  birds  in  a  glass 
case,  when  a  live  starling,  who  could  talk,  had  perched  near 
her  very  window-sill !  She  spent  hours  in  conversation  with 
her  Unitarian  minister,  while  a  real  pirate  lived  next  door! 

It  was  pitiful,  and  yet  it  was  very  funny.  We  found  it 
hard  to  go  quietly  down  to  tea  with  such  thoughts  in  our 
minds,  and  after  five  hours  in  our  bedroom. 

in 

The  next  day  was  Sunday. 

As  we  sat  at  dinner  with  Mrs.  Handsomebody  after 
Morning  Service,  we  were  scarcely  conscious  of  the  large 
white  dumplings,  that  bulged  before  us,  with  a  delicious 
sticky,  sweet  sauce  trickling  down  their  dropsical  sides. 
We  plied  our  spoons  with  languid  interest  around  their 
outer  edges,  as  calves  nibble  around  a  straw  stack.  Our 
vagrant  minds  scoured  the  Spanish  Main  with  Captain 
Pegg. 

Suddenly  The  Seraph  spoke  in  that  cocksure  way  of  his. 


82  BURIED  TREASURE 

*  There  's  a  piwate  at  Pegg's.' 

Mrs.  Handsomebody  looked  at  him  sharply. 

'What 's  that?'  she  demanded. 

At  the  same  instant  Angel  and  I  kicked  him  under  cover 
of  the  dining-table. 

'What  did  you  say?'  repeated  Mrs.  Handsomebody, 
sternly. 

*  Funny  ole  gennelman  at  the  Cwibbage  Peggs','  replied 
The  Seraph  with  his  mouth  full. 

Mrs.  Handsomebody  greatly  respected  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mortimer  Pegg,  and  this  play  of  words  on  the  name  in 
censed  her. 

'Am  I  to  understand,  Alexander,'  she  gobbled,  'that  you 
are  making  game  of  the  Mortimer  Peggs?' 

'Yes,'  giggled  the  wretched  Seraph,  'it 's  a  cwibbage 
game.  You  play  it  wiv  Peggs.' 

'Leave  the  table  instantly!'  ordered  Mrs.  Handsome- 
body.  'You  are  becoming  unbearable.' 

The  Seraph  cast  one  anguished  look  at  his  dumpling 
and  burst  into  tears.  We  could  hear  his  wails  growing  ever 
fainter  as  he  plodded  up  the  stairs. 

'Mary  Ellen,  remove  that  dumpling!'  commanded  Mrs. 
Handsomebody. 

Angel  and  I  began  to  eat  very  fast.  There  was  a  short 
silence;  then  Mrs.  Handsomebody  said  didactically,  — 

'  The  elder  Mr.  Pegg  is  a  much  traveled  gentleman,  and 
one  of  the  most  noted  archaeologists  of  the  day.  A  trifle 
eccentric  in  his  manner,  perhaps,  but  a  deep  thinker. 
David,  can  you  tell  me  what  an  archaeologist  is? ' 

'Something  you  pretend  you  are,'  said  Angel,  'and  you 
ain't.' 

'Nonsense!'  snapped  Mrs.  Handsomebody.  'Look  it  up 
in  your  Johnson's  when  you  go  upstairs,  and  let  me  know 
the  result.  I  will  excuse  you  now.' 


BURIED  TREASURE  83 

We  found  The  Seraph  lounging  in  a  chair  in  the  school 
room. 

'Too  bad  about  the  dumpling,  old  boy,'  I  said  consolingly. 

'Oh,  not  too  bad/  he  replied.  'Mary  Ellen  fetched  it  up 
the  back  stairs  to  me.  I  'm  vewy  full.' 

That  afternoon  we  saw  Captain  Pegg  go  for  a  walk  with 
his  son  and  daughter-in-law.  He  looked  quite  altered  in  a 
long  gray  coat  and  tall  hat.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  Pegg 
seemed  proud  to  walk  with  him. 

The  following  day  was  warm  and  sunny.  When  lessons 
were  over  we  rushed  to  our  bedroom  window,  and  to  our 
joy  we  found  that  the  window  opposite  was  wide  open, 
the  wicker  cage  on  the  sill,  with  the  starling  inside  swelling 
up  and  preening  himself  in  the  sunshine,  while  just  beyond 
sat  Captain  Pegg  smoking  a  long  pipe. 

He  seemed  delighted  to  see  us. 

'Avast,  my  hearties ! '  he  cried.  *  It 's  glorious  sailing 
weather,  but  I  've  just  been  lying  at  anchor  here,  on  the 
chance  of  sighting  you.  It  does  my  heart  good,  y'  see,  to 
talk  with  some  of  my  own  kind,  and  leave  off  pretending  to 
be  an  archaeologist  —  to  stretch  my  mental  legs,  as  it  were. 
Well  —  have  you  taken  your  bearings  this  morning?' 

*  Cap  tain  Pegg,'  I  broke  out  with  my  heart  tripping 
against  my  blouse,  'you  said  something  the  other  day  about 
buried  treasure.  Did  you  really  find  some?  And  would 
you  mind  telling  us  how  you  set  about  it? ' 

'Yes,'  he  replied  meditatively,  'many  a  sack  of  treasure 
trove  I  've  unearthed.  But  the  most  curious  find  of  all,  I 
got  without  searching  and  without  blood  being  spilt.  I 
was  lying  quiet  those  days,  about  forty  years  ago,  off  the 
north  of  the  Orkney  Islands.  Well,  one  morning  I  took  a 
fancy  to  explore  some  of  the  outlying  rocks  and  little  is 
lands  dotted  here  and  there.  So  I  started  off  in  a  yawl  with 
four  seamen  to  row  me;  and  not  seeing  much  but  barren 


84  BURIED  TREASURE 

rocks  and  stunted  shrubs  about,  I  bent  over  the  stern  and 
stared  into  the  sea.  It  was  as  clear  as  crystal. 

'As  we  were  passing  through  a  narrow  channel  between 
two  rocky  islands,  I  bade  the  men  rest  on  their  oars,  for 
something  strange  below  had  arrested  my  attention.  I 
now  could  see  plainly,  in  the  green  depths,  a  Spanish  gal 
leon,  standing  upright,  held  as  in  a  vice  by  the  grip  of  the 
two  great  rocks.  She  must  have  gone  down  with  all  hands, 
when  the  greater  part  of  the  Spanish  Armada  was  wrecked 
on  the  shores  of  Britain. 

* " Shiver  my  timbers,  lads ! "  I  cried,  "here  '11  be  treasure 
in  earnest!  Back  to  the  ship  for  our  diving-suits!  Booty 
for  every  one,  and  plum  duff  for  dinner!" 

'Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I  and  four  of  the 
trustiest  of  the  crew  put  on  our  diving-suits,  and  soon  we 
were  walking  the  slippery  decks  once  trodden  by  Spanish 
grandees  and  soldiers,  and  the  scene  of  many  a  bloody 
fight,  I  '11  be  bound.  Their  skeletons  lay  about  the  deck, 
wrapped  in  sea-tangle,  and  from  every  crevice  of  the  gal 
leon  tall  red  and  green  and  yellow  and  purple  weeds  had 
sprung,  that  waved  and  shivered  with  the  motion  of  the 
sea.  Her  decks  were  strewn  with  shells  and  sand,  and  in 
and  out  of  her  rotted  ribs  frightened  fish  darted  at  our  ap 
proach.  It  was  a  gruesome  sight. 

'Three  weeks  we  worked,  carrying  the  treasure  to  our 
own  ship,  and  I  began  to  feel  as  much  at  home  under  water 
as  above  it.  At  last  we  set  sail  without  mishap,  and  every 
man  on  board  had  his  share,  and  some  of  them  gave  up 
pirating  and  settled  down  as  innkeepers  and  tradesmen.' 

As  the  sound  of  his  deep  voice  ceased,  we  three  were  silent 
also,  gazing  longingly  into  his  eyes,  that  were  so  like  the  sea. 

Then  — '  Captain  Pegg,'  said  Angel,  in  a  still  small  voice, 
'I  don't  —  s'pose  —  you  M  know  of  any  hidden  treasure 
hereabouts?  We  'd  most  awfully  like  to  find  some.  It  'd 
be  a  jolly  thing  to  write  and  tell  father.' ' 


BURIED  TREASURE  85 

A  droll  smile  flickered  over  the  bronzed  features  of  Cap 
tain  Pegg.  He  brought  down  his  fist  on  the  window-sill. 

'Well,  if  you  aren't  chaps  after  my  own  heart!'  he  cried. 
'Treasure  about  here?  I  was  just  coming  to  that  —  and  a 
most  curious  happening  it  is!  There  was  a  cabin-boy,  — 
name  of  Jenks,  —  a  lad  that  I  trusted  and  loved  like  my 
own  son,  who  stole  the  greater  part  of  my  share  of  the  trea 
sure,  and  though  I  scoured  the  globe  for  him,'  —  the  cap 
tain's  eyes  rolled  fiercely,  —  '  I  found  neither  trace  of  him 
nor  the  treasure,  till  two  years  ago.  It  was  in  Madagascar 
that  I  received  a  message  from  a  dying  man,  confessing 
that,  shaken  by  remorse,  he  had  brought  what  was  left  of  the 
plunder  and  buried  it  in  Mrs.  Handsomebody's  back  yard.' 

'Mrs.  Handsomebody's  back  yard!'  We  chanted  the 
words  in  utter  amazement. 

'Just  that,'  affirmed  Captain  Pegg  solemnly.  'Jenks 
found  out  that  I  owned  the  house  next  door,  but  he  dared 
not  bury  the  treasure  there  because  the  yard  was  smoothly 
sodded,  and  would  show  up  any  disturbance;  while  Mrs. 
H.'s  yard,  being  covered  with  planks,  was  just  the  thing. 
So  he  simply  raised  one  of  the  planks,  dug  a  hole,  and  de 
posited  the  sack  containing  the  last  of  the  treasure,  and 
wrote  me  his  confession.  And  there  you  are ! ' 

He  smiled  benignly  on  us.  I  longed  to  hug  him. 

The  wind  swooped  and  whistled  down  the  alley,  and  the 
starling  gave  little  sharp  twittering  noises  and  cocked  his 
head. 

'When,  oh,  when?'  we  burst  out;  'to-night?  May  we 
search  for  it  to-night,  Captain  Pegg?' 

He  reflected.  'No-o.  Not  to-night.  Jenks,  you  see,  sent 
me  a  plan  of  the  yard,  with  a  cross  to  mark  where  the  treas 
ure  lies,  and  I  '11  have  to  hunt  it  up  so  as  not  to  waste  our 
time  turning  up  the  whole  yard.  But  to-morrow  night  — 
yes,  to-morrow  at  midnight  we  '11  start  the  search ! ' 


86  BURIED  TREASURE 

IV 

At  dinner  that  day  the  rice-pudding  had  the  flavor  of 
ambrosia.  By  night-fall  preparations  were  already  on 
foot. 

First,  the  shovel  had  been  smuggled  from  the  coal- 
cellar  and  secreted  in  a  corner  of  the  yard  behind  the  ash- 
barrel,  together  with  an  iron  crowbar  to  use  as  a  lever, 
and  an  empty  sack  to  aid  in  the  removal  of  the  treasure. 

I  scarcely  slept  that  night;  and  when  I  did,  my  mind  was 
filled  with  wild  imaginings.  The  next  morning  we  were 
heedless  scholars  indeed,  and  at  dinner  I  ate  so  little  that 
Mrs.  Handsomebody  was  moved  to  remark  jocularly  that 
somebody  not  a  thousand  miles  away  was  shaping  for  a 
bilious  bout. 

At  four  o'clock  Captain  Pegg  appeared  at  his  window, 
looking  the  picture  of  cheerful  confidence.  He  said  it 
warmed  his  heart  to  be  at  his  old  profession  again,  and 
indeed  I  never  saw  a  merrier  twinkle  in  any  one's  eyes. 
He  had  found  the  plan  of  the  yard  sent  by  Jenks,  and  he 
had  no  doubt  that  we  should  soon  be  in  possession  of  the 
Spanish  treasure. 

'But  there  's  one  thing,  my  lads,'  he  said  solemnly:  'I 
make  no  claim  whatever  to  any  share  in  this  booty.  Let 
that  be  understood.  Anything  we  find  is  to  be  yours  en 
tirely.  If  I  were  to  take  any  such  goods  into  my  son's 
house,  his  wife  would  get  suspicious,  and  uncomfortable 
questions  would  be  asked,  and  it  'd  be  all  up  with  this 
archaeologist  business.' 

'Could  n't  you  hide  it  under  your  bed?'  I  suggested. 

'Oh,  she  'd  be  sure  to  find  it,'  he  replied  sadly.  'She  's 
into  everything.  And  even  if  they  did  n't  locate  it  till  I 
am  dead,  they  'd  feel  disgraced  to  think  their  father  had 
been  a  pirate.  You  '11  have  to  take  it.' 


BURIED   TREASURE  87 

We  agreed,  therefore,  to  ease  him  of  the  responsibility 
of  his  strangely  gotten  gain.  We  then  parted,  with  the  un 
derstanding  that  we  were  to  meet  him  in  the  alley  between 
the  two  houses  promptly  at  midnight,  and  that  in  the 
meantime,  we  were  to  preserve  a  calm  and  commonplace 
demeanor. 

With  the  addition  of  four  crullers  and  a  slab  of  cold 
bread  pudding  filched  from  the  pantry,  our  preparations 
were  now  complete. 

We  were  well-disciplined  little  animals;  we  always  went 
to  bed  without  a  murmur,  but  on  this  night  we  literally 
flew  there.  The  Seraph  ended  his  prayers  with  —  'And  for 
this  piwate  tweasure  make  us  twuly  thankful.  Amen.* 

The  next  moment  we  had  dived  under  the  bedclothes 
and  snuggled  there  in  wild  expectancy. 

From  half -past  seven  to  twelve  is  a  long  stretch.  The 
Seraph  slept  peacefully.  Angel  or  I  rose  every  little  while 
and  struck  a  match  to  look  at  the  clock.  At  nine  we  were 
so  hungry  that  we  ate  all  four  crullers.  At  eleven  we  ate 
the  slab  of  cold  bread  pudding.  After  that  we  talked  less, 
and  I  think  Angel  dozed,  but  I  lay  staring  in  the  direction 
of  the  window,  watching  for  the  brightness  which  would 
signify  that  Captain  Pegg  was  astir  and  had  lighted  his 
gas. 

At  last  it  came  —  a  pale  and  trembling  messenger,  that 
showed  our  little  room  to  me  in  a  new  aspect  —  one  of 
mystery  and  grotesque  shadows. 

I  was  on  my  feet  in  an  instant.  I  shook  Angel's  shoulder. 

'Up  with  you!'  I  whispered,  hoarsely.  'The  hour  has 
come ! ' 

I  knew  that  drastic  measures  must  be  taken  with  The 
Seraph,  so  I  just  grasped  him  under  the  armpits  and  stood 
him  on  his  feet  without  a  word.  He  wobbled  for  a  space, 
digging  his  knuckles  in  his  eyes. 


88  BURIED   TREASURE 

The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  ten  minutes  to  twelve. 

Angel  and  I  hastily  pulled  on  our  trousers ;  and  he,  who 
liked  to  dress  the  part,  stuck  a  knife  in  his  belt  and  twisted 
a  scarlet  silk  handkerchief  (borrowed  from  Mary  Ellen) 
round  his  head.  His  dark  eyes  glistened  under  its  folds. 

The  Seraph  and  I  went  unadorned,  save  that  he  girt  his 
trusty  sword  about  his  stout  middle  and  I  carried  a  toy 
bayonet. 

Down  the  inky-black  stairs  we  crept,  scarcely  breath 
ing.  The  lower  hall  seemed  cavernous.  I  could  smell  the 
old  carpets  and  the  haircloth  covering  of  the  chairs.  We 
sidled  down  the  back  hall  among  goloshes,  umbrellas,  and 
Turk's-head  dusters.  The  back  door  had  a  key  like  that  of 
a  jail. 

Angel  tried  it  with  both  hands,  but  though  it  grated 
horribly,  it  stuck.  Then  I  had  a  try,  and  could  not 
resist  a  triumphant  click  of  the  tongue  when  it  turned,  for 
Angel  was  a  vain  fellow  and  took  a  rise  out  of  being  the 
elder. 

And  when  the  moonlight  shone  upon  us  in  the  yard !  — 
oh,  the  delicious  freedom  of  it !  We  hopped  for  joy. 

In  the  alley  we  awaited  our  leader.  Between  the  houses 
we  could  see  the  low  half -moon,  hanging  like  a  tilted  bird's 
nest  in  the  dark-blue  sky,  while  a  group  of  stars  fluttered 
near  it  like  young  birds.  The  cathedral  chimes  sounded 
the  hour  of  midnight. 

Soon  we  heard  the  stealthy  steps  of  Captain  Pegg,  and 
we  gasped  as  we  saw  him;  for  in  place  of  his  flowered  dress 
ing-gown  he  wore  breeches  and  top  boots,  a  loose  shirt 
with  a  blue  neckerchief  knotted  at  the  throat,  and,  gleam 
ing  at  his  side,  a  cutlass. 

He  smiled  broadly  when  he  saw  us. 

*  Well,  if  you  are  n't  armed  —  every  man-jack  of  you  — 
even  to  the  bantling ! '  he  cried.  '  Capital ! ' 


BURIED   TREASURE  89 

*My  sword,  she  's  weal,9  said  The  Seraph  with  dignity. 
4  Sometimes  I  fight  giants.' 

Captain  Pegg  then  shook  hands  with  each  of  us  in  turn, 
and  we  thrilled  at  being  treated  as  an  equal  by  such  a  man. 

'And  now  to  work!'  he  said,  heartily.  'Here  is  the  plan 
of  the  yard  as  sent  by  Jenks.' 

We  could  see  it  plainly  by  the  moonlight,  all  neatly 
drawn  out,  even  to  the  ash-barrel  and  the  clothes-dryer, 
and  there,  on  the  fifth  plank  from  the  end,  was  a  cross  in 
red  ink,  and  beside  it  the  magic  word  —  '  Treasure ' ! 

Captain  Pegg  inserted  the  crowbar  in  a  wide  crack  be 
tween  the  fourth  and  fifth  boards,  then  we  all  pressed  our 
full  weight  upon  it  with  a  'Yo  heave  ho,  my  hearties!' 
from  our  chief. 

The  board  flew  up  and  we  flew  down,  sprawling  on  the 
ground.  Somehow  the  captain,  being  versed  in  such  mat 
ters,  kept  his  feet,  though  he  staggered  a  bit. 

Then,  in  an  instant,  we  were  pulling  wildly  at  the  plank 
to  dislodge  it.  This  we  accomplished  after  much  effort, 
and  a  dark,  dank  recess  was  disclosed. 

Captain  Pegg  dropped  to  his  knees,  and  with  his  hand 
explored  cautiously  under  the  planks.  His  face  fell. 

*  Shiver  my  timbers  if  I  can  find  it ! '  he  muttered. 

*  Let  me  try !'  I  cried  eagerly. 

Both  Angel  and  I  thrust  our  hands  in  also  and  fumbled 
among  the  moist  lumps  of  earth. 

Captain  Pegg  now  lighted  a  match  and  held  it  in  the 
aperture.  It  cast  a  glow  upon  our  tense  faces. 

'Hold  it  closer!'  implored  Angel.  'This  way  —  right 
here  —  don't  you  see? ' 

At  the  same  moment  we  both  had  seen  the  heavy  metal 
ring  that  projected,  ever  so  little,  above  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  We  grasped  it  simultaneously  and  pulled.  Captain 
Pegg  lighted  another  match.  It  was  heavy  —  oh,  so  heavy! 


90  BURIED   TREASURE 

• —  but  we  got  it  out :  a  fair-sized  leather  bag  bound  with 
thongs.  To  one  of  these  was  attached  the  ring  we  had  first 
caught  sight  of. 

Now,  kneeling  as  we  were,  we  stared  up  in  Captain 
Pegg's  face.  His  wide  blue  eyes  had  somehow  got  a  dif 
ferent  look. 

*  Little  boys/  he  said  gently,  'open  it! 

There  in  the  moonlight,  we  unloosed  the  fastening  of  the 
bag  and  turned  its  contents  out  upon  the  bare  boards. 
The  treasure  lay  disclosed  then,  a  glimmering  heap,  as  if, 
out  of  the  dank  earth,  we  had  digged  a  patch  of  moon 
shine. 

We  squatted  on  the  boards  around  it,  our  heads  touch 
ing,  our  wondering  eyes  filled  with  the  magic  of  it. 

*  It  is  treasure/  murmured  Angel,  in  an  awe-struck  voice, 
'real  treasure  trove.   Will  you  tell  us,  Captain  Pegg,  what 
all  these  things  are?' 

Captain  Pegg,  squatting  like  the  rest  of  us,  ran  his  hands 
meditatively  through  the  strange  collection. 

'Why,  strike  me  purple/  he  growled,  'if  that  scamp 
Jenks  has  n't  kept  most  of  the  gold  coins  and  left  us  only 
the  silver!  But  here  's  three  golden  doubloons,  all  right, 
one  apiece  for  ye!  And  here  's  ducats  and  silver  florins, 
and  pieces  of  eight  —  and  some  I  can't  name  till  I  get  the 
daylight  on  them.  It 's  a  pretty  bit  of  treasure  all  told; 
and  see  here  —  ' 

He  held  up  two  old  Spanish  watches,  just  the  thing  for 
gentlemen  adventurers. 

We  boys  were  now  delving  into  the  treasure  on  our  own 
account,  and  brought  to  light  a  brace  of  antiquated  pis 
tols,  an  old  silver  flagon,  a  compass,  a  wonderful  set  of 
chessmen  carved  from  ivory,  and  some  curious  shells,  that 
delighted  The  Seraph.  And  other  quaint  things  there  were 


BURIED  TREASURE  91 

that  we  handled  reverently,  and  coins  of  different  countries, 
square  and  round,  and  some  with  holes  bored  through. 

We  were  so  intent  upon  our  discovery  that  none  of  us 
heard  the  approaching  footsteps  till  they  were  fair  upon 
us.  Then,  with  a  start,  we  turned,  and  saw  to  our  horror 
Mrs.  Handsomebody  and  Mary  Ellen,  with  her  hair  in 
curl-papers,  and  close  behind  them,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morti 
mer  Pegg,  scantily  attired,  the  gentleman  carrying  a 
revolver. 

*  David!    John!    Alexander!'  gobbled  Mrs.  Handsome- 
body. 

'Now  what  d  'ye  think  of  that!'  came  from  Mary  Ellen. 

*  Father!  Have  you  gone  quite  mad?'  cried  Mrs.  Pegg. 
And  —  'Oh,  I  say,  governor,'  stammered  the  gentleman 
with  the  revolver. 

Captain  Pegg  rose  to  his  feet  with  dignity. 

'These  young  gentlemen,'  he  said,  simply,  'have  with 
my  help  been  able  to  locate  some  buried  treasure,  which 
was  stolen  from  me  years  ago  by  a  man  named  Jenks,  and 
has  lain  hidden  here  since  two  decades.  I  hereby  renounce 
all  claim  to  it  in  favor  of  my  three  brave  friends ! ' 

Mr.  Pegg  was  bent  over  the  treasure. 

'Now,  look  here,  sir,'  he  said,  rather  sharply,  'some  of 
this  seems  to  be  quite  valuable  stuff  — 

'I  know  the  value  of  it  to  a  penny,'  replied  his  father, 
with  equal  asperity,  'and  I  intend  that  it  shall  belong 
solely  and  wholly  to  these  boys.' 

'Whatever  are  you  rigged  up  like  that  for?'  demanded 
his  daughter-in-law. 

'As  gentlemen  of  spirit,'  replied  Captain  Pegg,  patiently, 
'we  chose  to  dress  the  part.  We  do  what  we  can  to  keep  a 
little  glamour  and  gayety  in  the  world.  Some  folk'  — 
he  looked  at  Mrs.  Handsomebody  —  'would  like  to  dis 
cipline  it  all  away.' 


92  BURIED  TREASURE 

'I  think,'  said  our  governess,  'that  considering  it  is  my 
back  yard,  I  have  some  claim  to  —  ' 

'None  at  all,  madam — none  at  all!'  interrupted  Cap 
tain  Pegg.  'By  all  the  rules  of  treasure-hunting,  the  finder 
keeps  the  treasure.' 

Mrs.  Handsomebody  was  silenced.  She  did  not  wish  to 
quarrel  with  the  Peggs. 

Mrs.  Pegg  moved  closer  to  her. 

'Mrs.  Handsomebody,'  she  said,  winking  her  white 
eyelashes  very  fast,  '  I  really  do  not  think  that  you  should 
allow  your  pupils  to  accept  this  —  er  —  treasure.  My 
father-in-law  has  become  very  eccentric  of  late,  and  I  am 
positive  that  he  himself  buried  these  things  very  recently. 
Only  day  before  yesterday,  I  saw  that  set  of  ivory  chess 
men  on  his  writing-table.' 

'Hold  your  tongue,  Sophia!'  shouted  Captain  Pegg 
loudly. 

Mr.  Mortimer  Pegg  looked  warningly  at  his  wife. 

'All  right,  governor!  Don't  you  worry,'  he  said,  taking 
his  father's  arm.  ' It  shall  be  just  as  you  say;  but  one  thing 
is  certain,  you  '11  take  your  death  of  cold  if  you  stay  out  in 
this  night  air.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

Captain  Pegg  shook  hands  with  a  grand  air  with  Angel 
and  me,  then  he  lifted  The  Seraph  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
him. 

'  Good-night,  bantling ! '  he  said,  softly.  '  Sleep  tight ! ' 

He  turned  then  to  his  son. 

'Mort,'  said  he,  'I  have  n't  kissed  a  little  boy  like  that 
since  you  were  just  so  high.' 

Mr.  Pegg  laughed  and  shivered,  and  they  went  off  quite 
amiably,  arm  in  arm,  Mrs.  Pegg  following,  muttering  to 
herself. 

Mrs.  Handsomebody  looked  disparagingly  at  the  treas- 


BURIED  TREASURE  93 

ure.  *  Mary  Ellen,'  she  ordered,  *  help  the  children  to  gather 
up  that  rubbish,  and  come  in  at  once !  Such  an  hour  it  is ! ' 

Mary  Ellen,  with  many  exclamations,  assisted  in  the  re 
moval  of  the  treasure  to  our  bedroom.  Mrs.  Handsome- 
body,  after  seeing  it  deposited  there,  and  us  safely  under 
the  bedclothes,  herself  extinguished  the  gas. 

*  I  shall  write  to  your  father/  she  said,  severely, '  and  tell 
him  the  whole  circumstance.  Then  we  shall  see  what  is  to 
be  done  with  you,  and  with  the  treasure.' 

With  this  veiled  threat  she  left  us.  We  snuggled  our 
little  bodies  together.  We  were  cold. 

*I  '11  write  to  father  myself,  to-morrow,  an'  'splain  every 
thing,'  I  announced. 

'D'  you  know,'  mused  Angel,  *I  b'lieve  I  '11  be  a  pirate, 
'stead  of  a  civil  engineer  like  father.  I  b'lieve  there  's 
more  in  it.' 

'I  '11  be  an  engineer  just  the  same,'  said  I. 

'I  fink,'  murmured  The  Seraph,  sleepily,  'I  fink  I'll 
jus'  be  a  bishop,  an'  go  to  bed  at  pwoper  times  an'  have 
poached  eggs  for  tea.' 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE 

ANNIE   HAMILTON    DONNELL 

THE  Princess  was  washing  dishes.  On  her  feet  she  would 
barely  have  reached  the  rim  of  the  great  dish-pan,  but  on 
the  soap-box  she  did  very  well.  A  grimy  calico  apron  trailed 
to  the  floor. 

'Now  this  golden  platter  I  must  wash  extry  clean,'  the 
Princess  said.  'The  Queen  is  ve-ry  particular  about  her 
golden  platters.  Last  time,  when  I  left  one  o'  the  corners, 
—  it 's  such  a  nextremely  heavy  platter  to  hold,  —  she 
gave  me  a  scold,  —  oh,  I  mean,  —  I  mean  she  tapped  me 
a  little  love  pat  on  my  cheek  with  her  golden  spoon.' 

It  was  a  great  brown-veined  stoneware  platter,  and  the 
arms  of  the  Princess  ached  with  holding  it.  Then,  in  an 
unwary  instant,  it  slipped  out  of  her  soapsudsy  little  fingers 
and  crashed  to  the  floor.  Oh!  oh!  the  Queen!  the  Queen! 
She  was  coming !  The  Princess  heard  her  shrill,  angry  voice, 
and  felt  the  jar  of  her  heavy  steps.  There  was  the  space  of 
an  instant  —  an  instant  is  so  short !  —  before  the  storm 
broke. 

'You  little  limb  o'  Satan!  That's  my  best  platter,  is  it? 
Broke  all  to  bits,  eh?  I'll  break'  —  But  there  was  a  flurry 
of  dingy  apron  and  dingier  petticoats,  and  the  little  Prin 
cess  had  fled.  She  did  not  stop  till  she  was  in  her  Secret 
Place  among  the  willows.  Her  small  lean  face  was  pale, 
but  undaunted. 

'Th-the  Queen  is  n't  feeling  very  well  to-day,'  she 
panted.  '  It 's  wash-day  up  at  the  Castle.  She  never  enjoys 
herself  on  wash-days.  And  then  that  golden  platter  — 
I'm  sorry  I  smashed  it  all  to  flinders!  When  the  Prince 
comes  I  shall  ask  him  to  buy  another/ 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE  95 

The  Prince  had  never  come,  but  the  Princess  waited  for 
him  patiently.  She  sat  with  her  face  to  the  west  and  looked 
for  him  to  come  through  the  willows  with  the  red  sunset 
light  filtering  across  his  hair.  That  was  the  way  the  Prince 
was  coming,  though  the  time  was  not  set.  It  might  be  a 
good  while  before  he  came,  and  then  again  —  you  never 
could  tell! 

'But  when  he  does,  and  we've  had  a  little  while  to  get 
acquainted,  then  I  shall  say  to  him,  "Hear,  O  Prince,  and 
give  ear  to  my  —  my  petition !  For  verily,  verily,  I  have 
broken  many  golden  platters  and  jasper  cups  and  saucers, 
and  the  Queen,  long  live  her!  is  sore  —  sore  —  " 

The  Princess  pondered  for  the  forgotten  word.  She  put 
up  a  little  lean  brown  hand  and  rubbed  a  tingling  spot  on 
her  temple  —  ah,  not  the  Queen !  It  was  the  Princess  — 
long  live  her!  —  who  was  'sore.' 

"I  beseech  thee,  O  Prince,"  I  shall  say,  "buy  new 
golden  platters  and  jasper  cups  and  saucers  for  the  Queen, 
and  then  shall  I  verily,  verily  be  —  be  —  " 

Oh,  the  long  words  —  how  they  slipped  out  of  reach! 
The  little  Princess  sighed  rather  wearily.  She  would  have 
to  rehearse  that  speech  so  many  times  before  the  Prince 
came.  Suppose  he  came  to-night !  Suppose  she  looked  up 
now,  this  minute,  toward  the  golden  west,  and  he  was  there, 
swinging  along  through  the  willow  canes  toward  her ! 

But  there  was  no  one  swinging  along  through  the  wil 
lows.  The  yellow  light  flickered  through  —  that  was  all. 
Somewhere,  a  long  way  off,  sounded  the  monotonous  hum 
of  men's  voices.  Through  the  lace-work  of  willow  twigs 
there  showed  the  faintest  possible  blur  of  color.  Down  be 
yond,  in  the  clearing,  the  Castle  Guards  in  blue  jean  blouses 
were  pulling  stumps.  The  Princess  could  not  see  their  dull, 
passionless  faces,  and  she  was  glad  of  it.  The  Castle  Guards 
depressed  her.  But  they  were  not  as  bad  as  the  Castle 


96  THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE 

Guardesses.  They  were  mostly  old  women  with  bleared, 
dim  eyes,  and  they  wore  such  faded  —  silks. 

*  My  silk  dress  is  rather  faded/  murmured  the  little  Prin 
cess  wistfully. 

She  smoothed  down  the  scant  calico  skirt  with  her  brown 
little  fingers.  The  patch  in  it  she  would  not  see. 

'I  shall  have  to  have  the  Royal  Dressmaker  make  me 
another  one  soon.  Let  me  see  —  what  color  shall  I  choose? 
I  'd  like  my  gold-colored  velvet  made  up.  I  'm  tired  of  wear 
ing  royal  purple  dresses  all  the  time,  though  of  course  I 
know  they  're  appropriater.  I  wonder  what  color  the  Prince 
would  like  best?  I  should  rather  choose  that  color/ 

The  Princess's  little  brown  hands  were  clasped  about  one 
knee,  and  she  was  rocking  herself  slowly  back  and  forth, 
her  eyes,  wistful  and  wide,  on  the  path  the  Prince  would 
come.  She  was  tired  to-day  and  it  was  harder  to  wait. 

'But  when  he  comes  I  shall  say,  "Hear,  O  Prince. 
Verily,  verily,  I  did  not  know  which  color  you  would  like 
to  find  me  dressed  —  I  mean  arrayed  —  in,  and  so  I  be 
seech  thee  excuse  —  yardon,  I  mean,  mine  infirmity." 

The  Princess  was  not  sure  of  'infirmity,'  but  it  sounded 
well.  She  could  not  think  of  a  better  word. 

'And  then  —  I  think  then  —  he  will  take  me  in  his  arms, 
and  his  face  will  be  all  sweet  and  splendid  like  the  Mother 
o'  God's  in  the  picture,  and  he  will  whisper,  —  I  plon't 
think  he  will  say  it  out  loud,  —  oh,  I'd  rather  not!  — 
"Verily,  Princess,"  he  will  whisper,  "oh,  verily,  verily,  thou 
hast  found  favor  in  my  sight!"  And  that  will  mean  that 
he  does  n't  care  what  color  I  am,  for  he  —  loves  —  me.' 

Lower  and  lower  sank  the  solemn  voice  of  the  Princess. 
Slower  and  slower  rocked  the  little  lean  body.  The  birds 
themselves  stopped  singing  at  the  end.  In  the  Secret  Place 
it  was  very  still. 

'Oh,  no,  no,  no,  —  not  verily!'  breathed  the  Princess,  in 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE  97 

soft  awe.  For  the  wonder  of  it  took  her  breath  away.  She 
had  never  in  her  life  been  loved,  and  now,  at  this  moment, 
it  seemed  so  near!  She  thought  she  heard  the  footsteps  of 
the  Prince. 

They  came  nearer.  The  crisp  twigs  snapped  under  his 
feet.  He  was  whistling. 

'Oh,  I  can't  look!  —  I  can't!'  gasped  the  little  Princess, 
but  she  turned  her  face  to  the  west,  —  she  had  always 
known  it  would  be  from  the  west,  —  and  lifted  closed  eyes 
to  his  coming.  When  he  got  to  the  Twisted  Willow  she 
might  dare  to  look  —  to  the  Little  Willow  Twins,  anyway. 
'And  I  shall  know  when  he  does,'  she  thought.  'I  shall 
know  the  minute ! ' 

Her  face  was  rapt  and  tender.  The  miracle  she  had  made 
for  herself,  —  the  gold  she  had  coined  out  of  her  piteous 
alloy,  —  was  it  not  come  true  at  last?  —  Verily,  verily? 

Hush!  Was  the  Prince  not  coming  through  the  willows? 
And  the  sunshine  was  trickling  down  on  his  hair !  The  Prin 
cess  knew,  though  she  did  not  look. 

'He  is  at  the  Twisted  Willow,'  she  thought.  'Now  he  is 
at  the  Little  Willow  Twins.' 

But  she  did  not  open  her  eyes.   She  did  not  dare.   This 
was  a  little  different,  she  had  never  counted  on  being  afraid. 
The  twigs  snapped  louder  and  nearer  —  now  very  near. 
The  merry  whistle  grew  clearer,  and  then  it  stopped. 
'Hullo!' 

Did  princes  say  '  Hullo ! ' 

The  Princess  had  little  time  to  wonder,  for  he  was  there 
before  her.  She  could  feel  his  presence  in  every  fibre  of  her 
trembling  little  being,  though  she  would  not  open  her  eyes 
for  very  fear  that  it  might  be  somebody  else.  No,  no,  it 
was  the  Prince !  It  was  his  voice,  clear  and  ringing,  as  she 
had  known  it  would  be.  She  put  up  her  hands  suddenly 
and  covered  her  eyes  with  them  to  make  surer.  It  was  not 

8 


98  THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE 

fear  now,  but  a  device  to  put  off  a  little  longer  the  delight 
of  seeing  him. 

'I  say,  hullo!  Have  n't  you  got  any  tongue?' 

'Oh,  verily,  verily,  —  I  mean  hear,  O  Prince,  I  beseech,' 
she  panted. 

The  boy's  merry  eyes  regarded  the  shabby  small  person 
in  puzzled  astonishment.  He  felt  an  impulse  to  laugh  and 
run  away,  but  his  royal  blood  forbade  either.  So  he  waited. 

*  You  are  the  Prince,'  the  little  Princess  cried.  *  I  've  been 
waiting  the  longest  time,  —  but  I  knew  you'd  come,'  she 
added  simply.  '  Have  you  got  your  velvet  an'  gold  buckles 
on?  I  'm  goin'  to  look  in  a  minute,  but  I  'm  waiting  to  make 
it  spend.' 

The  Prince  whistled  softly.  'No,'  he  said  then,  'I  did  n't 
wear  them  clo'es  to-day.  You  see,  my  mother  — ' 

'The  Queen,'  she  interrupted;  'you  mean  the  Queen?' 

4 You  bet  I  do!  She's  a  reg'lar-builter!  Well,  she  don't 
like  to  have  me  wearin'  out  my  best  clo'es  every  day,'  he 
said  gravely. 

'No,'  eagerly,  'nor  mine  don't.  Queen,  I  mean,  —  but 
she  isn't  a  mother,  mercy,  no!  I  only  wear  silk  dresses 
every  day,  not  my  velvet  ones.  This  silk  one  is  getting  a 
little  faded.' 

She  released  one  hand  to  smooth  the  dress  wistfully. 
Then  she  remembered  her  painfully  practiced  little  speech 
and  launched  into  it  hurriedly. 

'Hear,  O  Prince.  Verily,  verily,  I  did  not  know  which 
color  you  'd  like  to  find  me  dressed  in  —  I  mean  arrayed. 
I  beseech  thee  to  excuse  —  oh,  pardon,  I  mean  — ' 

But  she  got  no  further.  She  could  endure  the  delay  no 
longer,  and  her  eyes  flew  open. 

She  had  known  his  step;  she  had  known  his  voice.  She 
knew  his  face.  It  was  terribly  freckled,  and  she  had  not 
expected  freckles  on  the  face  of  the  Prince.  But  the  merry, 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE  99 

honest  eyes  were  the  Prince's  eyes.  Her  gaze  wandered 
downward  to  the  home-made  clothes  and  bare,  brown  legs, 
but  without  uneasiness.  The  Prince  had  explained  about 
his  clothes.  Suddenly,  with  a  shy,  glad  little  cry,  the  Prin 
cess  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

The  royal  blood  flooded  the  face  of  the  Prince  and  filled 
in  all  the  spaces  between  its  little  gold-brown  freckles.  But 
the  Prince  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  His  lips  formed  for 
words  and  she  thought  he  was  going  to  say,  *  Verily,  Prin 
cess,  thou  hast  found  favor  — ' 

'Le'  Js  go  fishinY  the  Prince  said. 


THE  TWO  APPLES 

JAMES   EDMUND    DUNNING 

WHEN  the  morning  of  the  sixteenth  day  broke  out  from 
the  gray  battlements  to  the  eastward,  only  two  live  men  re 
mained  on  the  raft  which  more  than  two  weeks  before  had 
left  the  splintered  side  of  the  barken  tine;,  besides,  there 
was  one  dead  man,  and  his  body  counted  three  out  of  a 
dozen  who  had  clung  to  the  raft  until  ten  starved  to  death 
because  they  could  not  live  on  red  apples  and  brine. 

Zadoc  roused  as  much  as  a  man  can  when  every  morning 
he  wakens  less  and  less  until  some  day  he  does  not  waken 
at  all.  Jeems  lay  staring  at  the  sun  as  at  a  stranger's  face. 

'Tufn-trcrt,  Jeems,'  said  Zadoc,  when  he  had  worked 
some  life  back  into  his  thickening  tongue,  *  till  we  put  him 
over.' 

They  rolled  the  body  into  the  sea  with  no  words  or 
ceremonials  to  mark  the  end,  except  that  Jeems,  when 
some  part  of  the  splash  stung  his  face,  struck  off  the  drops 
with  trembling,  horrified  hands. 

*  Two  apples  left,'  said  Zadoc,  not  in  any  tentative  sound 
ing  of  possibilities,  but  with  finality  forced  home  by  a  fact 
so  plain  and  near  as  to  render  evasion  needless. 

'One  for  to-day,'  said  Jeems,  'the — the  other  one  for 
to-morrow.' 

'The  last  one  for  to-morrow!'  returned  Zadoc,  bokt-as- 
ever.  'Let  us  wait  as  long  as  we  can  before  breakfast!' 

The  raft  drifted  many  hours,  following  the  sun  around 
the  fatal,  empty  bowl.  Jeems  broke  that  vast  silence. 

'  Zadoc,  I  must  eat  something.  My  head  is  —  you  know 
• —  my  head ! ' 


THE  TWO  APPLES  ioi 

'So  does  mine,'  said  Zadoc.   'Cut  the  first  apple  in  two.' 

It  takes  so  little  to  satisfy,  when  one  is  starving,  and 
that  little  goes  so  very  fast!  When  Zadoc  put  his  furred 
teeth  into  half  the  first  apple,  it  was  as  if  he  had  not  tasted 
such  since  he  left  Cape  Cod  a  dozen  years  before.  His 
mind,  strained  with  a  long,  unrealized  hope,  forgot  the 
timbers  on  which  his  bent  muscles  clung,  and  went  back  to 
an  orchard  he  had  known  —  where  such  apples  always 
grew.  The  cool  air  from  the  shadows  underneath  the  tree- 
rows  seemed  interlaid  with  waves  of  heat  and  the  loved 
odors  of  the  sunlit  seaside  farm,  —  that  long  slope  from 
the  meadow  land  up,  up  and  up  beneath  the  slant  uncer 
tain  fence  to  where  the  white  top-sides  of  the  house  were 
vividly  set  off  in  green,  —  till  Zadoc  came  to  himself  and 
understood  that  the  smell  was  only  the  damp  breath  of  the 
Atlantic,  and  the  heat  the  plunging  agony  which  flowed 
from  his  own  tense  heart..  The  first  apple  was  gone. 

The  two  men's  eyes  conversed  in  brief.  Then  Zadoc 
said,  — 

'I'm  going  to  sleep  again,  if  it  is  sleep.  Anyway,  I'm 
tired.  Can  you  stay  up  a  while?' 

'It's  my  trick,'  consented  Jeems. 

Neither  spoke  of  the  approaching  end,  but  when  they 
had  sat  staring  at  each  other  a  time,  • —  for  mad  men's 
minds  move  with  but  a  mock  agility,  Zadoc  said,  — 

'  Put  the  second  apple  under  the  tin  cup  in  the  middle  of 
the  raft,  and  keep  it  there.' 

When  the  apple  was  safe,  Zadoc  held  out  his  right  hand. 

'  Until  I  wake,  Jeems ! '  he  said. 

'It  is  safe  there,'  was  the  answer. 

And  Zadoc  lay  down  on  the  soggy  timbers,  satisfied,  with 
faith  in  the  honor  of  his  starving  mate. 

To  Jeems,  who  watched,  the  sea  looked  as  never  in  his 
life  before.  For  years  he  had  enslaved  it.  As  a  tough  Mount 


102         :  THE  TWO  APPLES 

Desert  fisher-boy,  he  had  bound  it  to  his  childish  will;  and 
in  many  later  years  afloat  had  thrown  back  its  innumerable 
challenges  with  all  contempt  until  the  Last  Time.  In 
sailors'  lives,  birth  and  the  marriage-day  bow  down  to  the 
Last  Time.  It  always  comes,  when  Fortune  or  the  years 
have  made  them  blindly  bold. 

Hi*  courage  fled  before  the  onslaught  of  these  terrible 
seas  which,  high  above  the  level  of  his  blurring  eyes,  swept 
up  in  a  torturous  parade,  as  if  Death  maddened  his  vic 
tims  by  passing  his  grand  divisions  in  review. 

Besides,  the  pain  of  hunger  so  outgrew  all  reason!  It 
cut  through  the  man's  thin  body  like  the  blade  of  a  great 
and  sudden  sorrow  in  one's  heart,  through  and  through, 
ever  returning,  never  going! 

A  greater  sea  than  the  others  rolled  underneath  the  raft, 
and  shook  the  loose  boards  so  that  the  tin  dipper  rolled  on 
its  inverted  rim,  and  then  fell  tinkling  back  again.  Jeems 
crawled  to  where  he  could  lift  the  dipper  and  see  beneath. 
The  second  apple  lay  secure,  its  plump  sides  a  shocking 
contrast  to  the  terrors  of  the  raft.  Jeems  looked  hard, 
cruel  pain  shot  from  his  throat  to  his  heels  in  a  tearing  red- 
hot  spiral.  The  first  apple  had  so  cooled  his  mouth! 
Water  began  running  off  Jeems's  chin.  If  -he-eould  only  run 
his  fingers  down  those  rounding  sides,  maybe  they  would 
catch  some  of  the  orchard  smell. 

Jeems  clapped  the  dipper  down  with  a  sudden  muscular 
fury,  and  kicked  Zadoc  into  sense  with  such  vigor  that  he 
fell  exhausted  from  the  effort. 

*I  was  so  lonesome,  I  thought  I  might  go  off,'  he  ex 
plained,  adding,  *  Zadoc,  what's  your  family?' 

'Five  and  the  wife,  God  help  'em,'  said  Zadoc,  not 
dramatically  either,  but  just  dully,  as  if  it  was  what  his 
mind  had  grown  to  know  very  much  better  than  anything 
else.  'Have  you?' 


THE  TWO  APPLES  103 

'No,'  said  Jeems.  *  Years  ago,  I  called  on  a  pretty  girl 
over  to  Somesville,  but  nothing  came  of  it.' 

'Just  as  well  now,'  said  Zadoc  coldly;  adding,  half  in 
{keanv'I  recollect  all  them  Somesville  girls  was  pretty. 
'Lizabeth  come  from  there.' 

'Who? 'asked  Jeems. 

'  'Lizabeth,  —  the  wife,  —  why,  she  was  your  sister, 
Jeems ! ' 

'So  she  was!  I  forgot!' 

Many  madmen  speak  in  the  past  tense  at  the  stage 
where  they  seem  to  look  back  on  their  proper  selves. 

The  sun  neared  the  west. 

'Lie  down  again,'  said  Jeems;  'I'll  watch.' 

'Any  sail  —  that  time  before?' 

'No  sail,  Zadoc.' 

The  wind  dropped  near  night,  and  Jeems  lay  on  the  raft 
with  eyes  that  glowed  back  the  red  reflection  of  the  setting 
sun.  As-it  moved  toward  the  liquid  line  of  sea,  its  brilliance 
fell  into  the  smother  of  a  cloud  through  which  its  sides 
shone  with  the  softened,  satin  polish  of  the  second  apple  as 
Jeems  last  saw  it.  The  thought  struck  him  in  the  middle  of 
his  heart,  which  began  leaping  as  when,  at  nineteen,  a 
girl's  smooth  fingers  lingered  on  his  own.  He  hungered  for 
sight  of  the  second  apple  as  for  nothing  else  in  the  whole  of 
the  world  before.  He  wished  the  raft  might  roll  so  violently 
as  to  throw  off  the  dipper,  and  then,  before  he  realized, 
his  own  foot  had  kicked  it  into  the  ocean  and  the  apple 
smiled  before  him,  securely  laid  between  two  great  planks 
at  the  bottom  of  the  raft.  Zadoc  slept.  Jeems  was  alone 
with  the  second  apple! 

He  looked  at  it  between  caked  lids  and  let  his  eyes  rove 
over  and  over  its  rare  beauties.  For  the  first  time  since 
he  was  born,  his  whole  being  —  the  knotted  body  whose 
abundant  energies  had  been  quite  absorbed  by  the  ardu- 


104  THE  TWO  APPLES 

ous  doings  of  his  roving  life,  and  the  big  heart  of  him  where 
the  rich  red  of  the  blood  was  pent  and  packed  with  never 
a  bit  of  an  outlet  for  relief  —  thrilled  with  the  keen,  deli 
cious  mystery  of  Desire.  His  meagre  lips,  crackling  like 
snake-skin,  repeated  in  monotone,  as  if  to  hold  his  con 
science  under  some  mesmeric  charm,  *  I  must !  I  must ! ' 

The  mere  thought  of  the  cool  heart  of  the  fruit  made  his 
pulse  spring  as  if  whipped.  To  imagine  the  exquisite  satis 
faction  which  would  follow  his  teeth  as  they  sank  slowly, 
slowly  —  sank  farther  and  farther  through  those  moisten 
ing  walls  until,  at  the  very  acme  of  delight,  they  met! 
Christ !  He  was  on  it  in  an  instant,  holding  it  with  both 
hands  and  not  lifting  it,  but  just  putting  his  face  down 
and  keeping  it  so  in  a  passionate  embrace.  He  would  eat, 
if  he  died  for  it.  He  must  — 

*  'Lizabeth ! '  It  was  Zadoc,  dreaming. 

''Lizabeth!  Good  old  girl.  Good  girl.  Bye-bye,  home 
at  sundown.  Good  old,  good  —  ah-h-h-h!' 

The  voice  fell  away  in  an  idiotic  sigh.  Jeems  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  stood  swaying  with  the  raft,  the  image  of  his 
sister  in  his  eyes.  Off  east,  where  the  gray  shades  grew,  he 
saw  her  walking  on  the  sea^  her  long  hair  blown  before,  like 
a  cloud  of  jet-black  flame,  and  her  face  all  lovely. 

*  'Lizabeth!'  Jeems  spread  his  arms;  but  she  did  not  see 
him,  for  she  looked  at  Zadoc  as  he  lay  there  at  her  brother's 
feet*  and  her  eyes  rained  love,  which  calmed  the  sea  like  oil. 

And  then  Jeems  saw  himself  as  if  from  far.  *  'Lizabeth ! ' 
he-6EJed;  but  she  did  not  hear,  so  he  held  his  two  arms  up 
toward  the  sky  and  whispered,  *  God,  God,  God!  Forgive 
Jeems  Harbutt,  a  wicked  sinner,  —  and  take  him,' — his 
voice  sank  to  a  low,  unhuman  key,  —  *  and  lead  us  not  into 
temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil,  for  thine  is  the 
kingdom  and  the  power  and  the  glory,  forever  —  O  God ! ' 

And  with  arms  still  raised  in  suppliance  for  his  great  un 
selfish  soul,  he  sprang  out  backward  to  the  darkening  sea. 


THE  PURPLE  STAR 

BY  REBECCA  HOOPER  EASTMAN 


WHEN  the  Fifth  Graders  returned  in  the  fall,  they  knew, 
to  a  boy  and  a  girl,  that  they  were  to  go  to  Room  H,  and 
they  knew,  too,  that  by  passing  over  the  threshold  they 
would  automatically  become  the  elderly  and  dignified  Sixth 
Grade.  Proud  and  disdainful  were  Sixth  Graders,  in  that 
they  carried  the  largest  geographies  made;  highly  pedantic, 
too,  were  they,  because  they  coped  with  mysterious  insti 
tutions  called  fractions,  which  occupied  the  clean,  unex 
plored  back  part  of  one's  arithmetic.  Fearsomely  learned 
were  they  in  words  of  seven,  eight,  and  nine  syllables.  To 
be  one  of  such  was  to  be  indeed  Grown  Up.  When  the  new 
class,  half -timorous,  and  wholly  suspicious,  entered  Room 
H,  they  were  startled  to  find  their  thirty  names  already 
written  in  a  neat  column  on  the  blackboard,  with  an  im 
perative  'Do  NOT  ERASE'  underneath.  How  on  earth  had 
Miss  Prawl  found  out  their  names? 

It  was  hard  for  Theodora  Bowles  to  take  her  seat  incon 
spicuously,  as  if  she  were  no  better  than  stupid  Freddy 
Beal ;  as  if,  in  fact,  she  had  not  been  for  five  years  the  leader 
of  the  class.  Theodora,  however,  was  not  nearly  so  obscure 
as  she  supposed ;  for  Miss  Prawl,  in  secret  session  with  the 
Fifth-Grade  teacher,  had  been  informed  that  Theodora 
was  so  quick-witted  that  she  usually  called  out  the  answer 
before  the  teacher  had  finished  putting  the  question.  Fur 
thermore,  whenever  the  class  was  asked  to  recite  in  con 
cert,  she  invariably  shouted  the  answer  first,  and  then  the 
rest  of  the  class  repeated  what  Theodora  had  said,  and 


106  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

were  therefore  always  right.  The  fact  that  she  knew  more 
than  any  one  but  the  teacher  had  made  Theodora's  life  one 
delightful  arrogance  of  intellectual  supremacy.  Pretending 
that  she  was  royalty  in  disguise,  Theodora  gazed  impa 
tiently  at  Miss  Prawl,  and  wondered  how  long  it  would  be 
before  the  new  teacher  found  out  how  bright  she  was. 

After  all  the  children  were  located  at  desks  corresponding 
to  the  ones  they  had  occupied  in  Grades  Five,  Four,  Three, 
Two,  and  One,  Miss  Prawl  opened  a  drawer  of  her  shiny, 
spotless  desk,  and  took  out  a  box  which  proved  to  contain 
six  new  pieces  of  different-colored  chalk,  lying  side  by  side. 
The  combination  of  the  bright  colors  was  so  alluring  that 
every  child  immediately  resolved  to  save  up  for  just  such 
an  outfit,  in  order  to  play  hopscotch  in  colors.  With  every 
eager  eye  riveted  upon  her,  Miss  Prawl  took  out  the  piece 
of  pink  chalk,  and  made  a  very  beautiful  pink  star  on  the 
blackboard,  directly  after  Stella  Appleton's  name.  Stella, 
it  may  be  said,  always  had  a  good  deal  of  undeserved  prom 
inence,  because  her  name  began  with  an  A. 

'If,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  Stella  or  any  one  of  the  rest 
of  you  is  perfect  in  spelling,  that  person  will  get  a  pink  star 
after  his  name/  announced  Miss  Prawl.  And  she  put  away 
the  pink  chalk,  and  drew  a  blue-chalk  star  after  Freddy 
Beal's  name.  'You  will  all  receive  blue  stars  if  you  are 
perfect  in  arithmetic/  she  continued.  'And  yellow — •'  she 
drew  a  yellow  star  —  '  yellow  is  for  perfect  geography. 
Green '  —  she  made  a  green  star  —  '  green  is  for  perfect 
reading;  and  red — •'  Miss  Prawl  paused  impressively  — 
'red  is  for  perfect  deportment/ 

After  this  entrancing  monologue,  Miss  Prawl  rubbed  out 
the  explanatory  stars,  replaced  the  chalk  carefully  in  the 
box,  and  waited.  Theodora's  hand  at  once  shot  up  into  the 
air. 

4  Well? 'asked  Miss  Prawl, 


THE  PURPLE  STAR  107 

'My-name's-Theodora-Bowles,'  said  Theodora.  'And 
there's  a  piece  of  purple  chalk  in  your  box,  Miss  Prawl, 
that  you  did  n't  say  anything  about.  And  so  I  wondered 
if  you  had  n't  forgotten  to  tell  us  about  purple  stars.' 

The  whole  class  leaned  forward  in  breathless  expectancy, 
proud  of  their  discerning  Theodora. 

'I  am  very  glad  that  you  asked  me  this  question,  Theo 
dora,'  said  Miss  Prawl.  'I  keep  the  purple  chalk  for  a  very 
special,  wonderful  reason.'  Thirty  pairs  of  glistening  eyes 
grew  rounder.  'The  purple  star/  said  Miss  Prawl,  in  a 
hushed  voice,  *  is  the  greatest  reward  that  I  can  bestow  on 
any  girl  or  boy.  It  is  given  only  for  some  very  great  deed: 
for  some  deed  which  shall  show  that  the  girl  or  boy  is  either 
very  brave  or  very  kind,  or  both.  Although  I  have  seen  a 
great  many  fine  girls  and  boys,  it  has  never  happened  that 
I  felt  that  the  right  time  had  come  to  give  any  one  a  purple 
star.  But  perhaps  this  will  be  purple-star  year.' 

Theodora  listened  with  a  great  dawning  worship  in  her 
eyes.  How  exciting  it  was  of  Miss  Prawl  to  set  up  such  an 
impossibly  high  standard!  And  how  altogether  interesting 
Miss  Prawl  was,  too!  Her  eyes  seemed  much  given  to  danc 
ing  and  twinkling;  her  voice  was  sweet  and  pleasant,  being 
especially  persuasive  when  she  said  'boy'  or  'girl';  and  her 
smile  was  a  blended  maternal-siren  affair  which  nobody  of 
either  sex  had  ever  been  able  to  resist.  Miss  Prawl  made 
one  feel  a  little  ashamed,  as  if  one  had  never  before  appre 
ciated  what  a  privilege  and  a  responsibility  it  was  to  be  a 
boy  or  a  girl.  The  new  teacher's  dress  was  a  soft,  pretty 
brown,  dainty  and  fresh.  Yes,  Theodora  resolved  that  she 
must  attain  the  purple  star,  and  thus  forever  become 
famous. 

Just  as  she  had  arrived  at  this  engrossing  decision,  the 
hall  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Wadsmore,  the  adored,  portly 
principal,  strode  energetically  in,  leading  a  new  boy.  This 


108  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

person,  this  upstart,  this  unidentified  stranger,  this  perfect 
nobody  of  a  new  boy  faced  the  critical,  penetrating  eyes  of 
the  assembled  class  with  an  almost  superhuman  ease. 

'Miss  Prawl,  this  young  man  is  Charley  Starr,'  said  Mr. 
Wadsmore.  'Can  you  make  a  place  for  him?' 

Beside  Theodora  there  was  an  empty  seat,  the  only  one 
in  the  room.  As  it  was  on  the  'girls'  side,'  the  male  aspir 
ants  for  education  with  difficulty  smothered  their  roars  of 
laughter  at  the  idea  of  a  boy's  sitting,  debased,  among  the 
girls.  Observing  this  ill-concealed  hilarity,  Miss  Prawl  at 
once  led  Charley  to  the  empty  seat  beside  Theodora. 

'If  you'll  sit  here  to-day,  Charley,  I  will  rearrange  the 
seating  to-morrow,'  she  said. 

As  Charley  sank  into  the  place  assigned,  Theodora 
blushed  painfully.  Being  nearest  to  the  unwelcome  mascu 
line  stranger  embarrassed  her  frightfully.  Her  hand  flew 
up  into  the  air. 

'Maylgwoutandgettadrink?'  she  asked. 
'Yes,  Theodora,'  replied  Miss  Prawl  evenly. 
She  had  heard  of  Theodora's  continuous  and  unquench 
able  thirst,  and  had  been  advised  by  no  less  a  person  than 
Mr.  Wadsmore  that  the  best  course  was  to  allow  Theodora 
to  drink  as  much  and  as  often  as  she  wished. 

After  a  copious  raid  on  the  water-cooler,  Theodora  re 
turned,  feeling  a  little  bloated,  but  much  more  composed 
and  natural. 

'Five  minutes  for  whispering,'  announced  Miss  Prawl,  at 
eleven  o'clock. 

A  deafening  hubbub  immediately  arose. 
'Say,'  began  Charley  Starr  to  Theodora,  from  behind  his 
desk  cover,  'how  do  you  like  her?'    He  nodded  toward 
Miss  Prawl,  and  winked. 

Theodora  was  unwilling  to  indulge  in  the  intimacies  of 
gossip  on  so  slight  an  acquaintance. 


THE   PURPLE   STAR  109 

*  Where 'd  you  come  from,  anyway?'  she  icily  inquired. 

'Skipped  up  from  the  Fourth  Grade.' 

'You  did!'   Hauteur  was  drowned  in  awe. 

'You  bet.  It's  the  second  time  I've  skipped  in  this 
school,  too.' 

Theodora  studied  Charley  with  detached,  incipient  dis 
like.  Charley  must  be  very  bright  indeed  to  have  skipped 
two  classes.  She  herself,  with  all  her  brains,  had  never  ar 
rived  at  the  pinnacle  of  skipping.  And  she  had  so  much 
wanted  to  feel  the  importance  of  marching  into  chapel 
with  the  class  next  higher  up,  and  of  smiling  back  at  her 
old  mates  with  condescending  tolerance.  Theodora  did  not 
know  that  she  might  have  skipped  several  times,  but  for 
the  fact  that  her  parents,  who  believed  in  the  slow  unfold 
ing  of  her  almost  too  brilliant  mind,  had  begged  to  have 
her  kept  back. 

All  unconscious  of  this  parental  duplicity,  Theodora  was 
having  some  very  uncomfortable  minutes.  If  Charley  Starr 
had  skipped  two  classes,  it  looked  as  if  the  impossible  were 
true  —  that  there  actually  existed  on  the  earth  a  person 
who  was  brighter  than  she.  It  could  not  be,  and  yet,  and 
yet  —  Charley  looked  disturbingly  intelligent.  But  there, 
of  course  he  had  not  studied  last  year's  subjects  in  detail, 
so  he  could  not  possibly  compete  with  her.  And  when  she 
received  the  purple  star,  she  would  be  entirely  safe.  Star  — 
why,  the  new  boy's  name  was  Star. 

'Is  your  name  spelled  plain  S-t-a-r?'  she  asked. 

'  S-t-a-double  r,'  replied  Charley.  '  I  'm  Charles  Augustus 
Starr,  Junior,'  he  said,  in  a  bragging  tone. 

Theodora  gave  a  shriek  of  delight,  and  punched  the  girl 
in  front  of  her. 

'Say,  Laura,  the  new  boy's  father  is  Coal-Cart  Starr!' 
she  cried. 

Laura  immediately  shrieked,  too,  and  so  did  all  the  other 


110  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

girls  when  they  heard  the  news.  Bewildered  at  so  much 
noise,  Miss  Prawl  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  Theodora,  who 
seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  cheer-leader,  to  look  up  the  word 
*  whisper'  in  the  large  dictionary,  and  write  the  definition 
on  the  blackboard. 

The  cause  of  all  the  undue  commotion  was  the  fact  that 
Charles  Augustus  Starr,  Senior,  was  in  the  coal  business, 
and  that  daily,  all  day  long,  up  and  down  the  city  went 
huge  coal  carts  labeled  'C.  A.  Starr.'  At  Theodora's  in 
stigation,  the  girls  in  her  class  had  formed  the  *  C.  A.  Starr 
Club,'  which  was  a  very  original  organization.  There  were 
no  dues,  and  the  responsibilities  were  light.  They  consisted 
of  merely  looking  upward  into  the  sky,  and  of  pointing 
upward  simultaneously  with  the  index  finger  of  the  right 
hand  every  time  one  met  a  coal  cart.  C.  A.  Starr  was  thus 
cunningly  interpreted  as  'See  a  star!'  It  rather  spoiled 
things  that  there  were  no  stars  to  be  seen  in  the  daytime, 
and  that  the  club  members  never  met  any  coal  carts  at 
night.  Still,  it  was  extremely  good  fun,  when  you  caught 
sight  of  a  coal  cart,  to  point  up  and  look  up  suddenly,  and 
to  have  the  vulgar,  uninitiated  outsider  ask,  *  What  are  you 
doing?'  and  then  to  explain  that  you  belonged  to  a  secret 
order,  and  that  there  were  times  when  it  was  necessary  to 
give  the  high  sign. 

As  Theodora  was  president  of  the  See-A-Star  Club,  she 
at  once  called  a  meeting,  to  be  held  at  the  noon  hour,  for 
the  purpose  of  considering  whether  or  not  club  members 
ought  to  give  the  high  sign  in  the  presence  of  C.  A.  Starr, 
Junior.  It  was  at  length  decided  by  the  president,  who  did 
all  the  talking,  that  they  would  point  up  and  look  up  when 
they  met  C.  A.  Starr,  Junior,  outside  the  school  grounds. 
Otherwise,  with  Charley  Starr  right  there  in  the  same 
room,  they  would  have  to  be  pointing  up  and  looking  up 
all  the  time,  and  Miss  Prawl  might  with  reason  object. 


THE  PURPLE  STAR  111 

'Say,'  said  Charley  Starr  to  Theodora,  in  the  afternoon 
whispering  period,  *  did  you  hear  about  the  purple  star? ' 

Theodora  nodded.  She  was  speechless,  because  she  had 
just  crammed  an  entire  licorice  'shoe-string'  into  her 
mouth. 

'Well,  I'm  laying  all  my  plans  to  get  that  star,'  pro 
claimed  Charley. 

'So'm  I,'  said  Theodora,  thickly,  with  black  lips.  'So 
there 's  no  use  in  your  trying.  I  'd  give  up  the  idea,  if  I  was 
you.' 

'Not  much  I  won't.  I'd  like  to  see  a  girl  get  ahead  of 
me*  retorted  Charles,  witheringly. 

Violent  sex-antagonism  sprang  up  full  grown  within  the 
soul  of  Theodora.  This  insignificant  upstart  who  casually 
skipped  must  be  taught  the  lesson,  once  and  for  all,  that 
school  was  one  of  the  places  where  girls  excelled. 

'  Let  us  refresh  our  memories  by  reviewing  some  of  last 
year's  geography,'  said  Miss  Prawl,  ringing  the  dinner-bell 
which  called  the  class  to  order. 

'Aha!'  thought  Theodora,  swallowing  the  last  of  the 
shoe-string  whole,  —  clearing  the  decks  for  action,  as  it 
were,  —  'I  guess  I'll  surprise  C.  A.  Starr,  Junior,  now!9 

'Recite  in  concert.  What  is  the  capital  of  Maine? '  asked 
Miss  Prawl. 

'Augusta-on-the-Kennebec!'  shouted  Theodora  Bowles 
and  Charley  Starr,  as  in  one  voice.  'Ter-ron-the-Kenne- 
bec !  *  echoed  the  rest  of  the  class. 

'What  is  the  capital  of  New  Hampshire? ' 

Again  the  two  brilliant  ones  roared  the  right  answer,  and 
the  rest  recited,  '  Curd-on-the-Merrimac ! ' 

'Vermont?'  continued  Miss  Prawl. 

'  Montpelier-on-the- Winooski ! '  yelled  the  rivals. 

'  She 's  going  straight  through  the  United  States  in  order,' 
decided  Theodora.  'I  know  'em  all,  backwards  and  for- 


112  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

wards,  and  I  guess  Charley  Starr  will  get  left  long  before 
we  get  to  the  Dakotas.' 

'What  is  the  capital  of  Rhode  Island?'  asked  the  wily 
Miss  Prawl,  who  had  noted  the  absent  look  on  Theodora's 
face,  and  purposely  omitted  Massachusetts.  And  she 
caught  everybody  in  the  class. 

'Boston-on-Massachusetts-Bay!'  the  leaders  cried.  And 
the  parrots  mimicked  them. 

Miss  Prawl  paused  so  long  that  Theodora  recalled  her 
question. 

'  Pro vidence-and-Newport-on-Narragansett-Bay ! '  howl 
ed  Charles  Starr,  ahead  of  Theodora,  and  in  a  voice  that 
could  be  heard  all  over  the  building. 

Theodora  could  scarcely  keep  back  the  flood  of  her  tears. 
Charley  Starr  had  thought  quicker  than  she!  It  was  the 
first  time  in  all  her  life  that  she  had  been  worsted,  and  — 
well,  those  smarting  tears  were  already  spilling  over  and 
showing. 

'Maylgwoutandgettadrink?'  she  asked.  And  from  the 
depths  of  the  dressing-room,  where  she  was  sobbing  into 
the  heart  of  the  roller  towel,  she  could  hear  Charles,  the 
usurper,  yelling,  — 

'  Harrisburg-on-the-Susquehanna ! ' 

When  Theodora  felt  able  to  return  to  society,  the  color 
which  was  usually  in  her  cheeks  seemed  to  have  concen 
trated  at  the  end  of  her  nose,  and  her  eyes  looked  sopping 
wet.  Her  intense  little  being,  however,  was  all  afire  with 
determination  to  win  the  purple  star. 

ii 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  Theodora  and  Charles  had  each 
a  pink,  blue,  yellow,  green,  and  red  star.  So  had  several  of 
the  other  children,  for  that  matter,  but  Theodora  well  knew 
that  these  others  would  have  an  intellectual  slump  by  the 


THE  PURPLE  STAR  113 

third  or  fourth  week.  She  was  right,  for  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  the  names  of  Theodora  Bowles  and  Charles  Augus 
tus  Starr,  Junior,  were  the  only  ones  that  had  a  complete 
set  of  stars  after  them. 

'Miss  Prawl,  now,  about  what  kind  of  a  deed  would  a 
person  have  to  do,  to  get  a  purple  star?'  queried  Charley, 
one  day  when  he  had  stayed  after  school  for  the  express 
purpose  of  extracting  some  inside  information  from  Miss 
Prawl. 

'That's -just  exactly  what  Theodora  asked  me  yester 
day/  said  Miss  Prawl.  'The  trouble  is,  I  shan't  know,  my 
self  until  the  deed  is  done.' 

'Miss  Prawl,  now,  if  I  saved  the  President  of  the  United 
States  from  a  runaway  horse  that  wanted  to  stamp  on  him, 
would  that  deed  get  me  a  purple  star?' 

'It  might,'  admitted  Miss  Prawl.  'That  would  be  a 
brave,  kind  act.' 

'If  he  would  only  move  to  Brooklyn,  I  might  stand  some 
show/  yearned  Charles. 

'Now,  Miss  Prawl/  began  Theodora  excitedly,  the  day 
after  the  Thanksgiving  recess,  'if  I  discovered  something 
that  nobody  had  ever  discovered  before,  would  that  be  a 
purple-star  deed?' 

'It  would  depend  upon  the  nature  of  your  discovery, 
Theodora.  Of  course,  while  the  world  could  not  prog 
ress  without  discoveries,  they  are  not  primarily  brave, or 
kind.' 

'That's  just  the  trouble/  sighed  Theodora.  But  she  still 
looked  hopeful.  'Miss  Prawl,  now,  would  it  be  a  purple- 
star  deed,  if  I  discovered  that  there  was  another  sun  up  in 
the  sky  besides  the  one  we  are  already  using?' 

'  If  you  discovered  anything  as  remarkable  as  that,  Theo 
dora,  I  should  feel  entirely  justified  in  giving  you  a  purple 
star/  replied  Miss  Prawl,  reveling  in  Theodora's  imagina- 


114  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

tion.  *  But  you  must  n't  worry  about  it,'  she  advised.  '  And 
you  must  n't  try  too  hard,  dear.' 

Theodora  could  hardly  believe  her  ears.  Dear !  A  school 
teacher  had  called  her  dear.  How  romantic  she  felt!  She 
took  her  seat  with  such  an  expression  of  ecstasy  on  her 
face  that  Miss  Prawl  wondered  what  she  could  be  thinking 
about  now. 

Although  Miss  Prawl  had  asked  her  not  to  try  too  hard, 
Theodora,  under  the  impelling  flattery  of  'dear,'  resolved 
that  she  would  work  more  than  ever  to  do  something  kindly 
brave  or  bravely  kind.  As  there  did  n't  seem  to  be  any 
deeds  of  that  sort  lying  round  loose  waiting  to  be  done, 
Theodora  worked  up  a  bitter  grudge  against  George  Wash 
ington  and  Abraham  Lincoln,  who,  before  she  was  born, 
had  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  her  by  saving  the  country 
and  freeing  the  slaves.  Still,  by  thinking  constantly  of  the 
purple  star,  and  kind  bravery,  she  hoped  to  keep  in  the' 
proper  frame  of  mind  to  recognize  the  great  deed  when  it 
came  along  just  aching  to  be  done.  Meanwhile,  she  prac 
tised  brave  kindness,  by  smiling  lovingly  and  saying  sweet 
ly  '  Good  morning ! '  to  the  school  janitor,  who  was  a  faith 
ful,  glowering  old  dog  of  a  Scotchman  —  one  of  the  few 
human  beings  who  are  impervious  to  blandishments.  If 
any  one  ever  spoke  to  him  unnecessarily,  this  janitor  fixed 
a  murderous  gaze  on  the  offender,  as  if  he  would  deeply 
relish  killing  him,  if  he  were  n't  too  busy  mopping  or  wash 
ing  blackboards.  All  those  who  were  not  practising  bravery 
avoided  him  as  much  as  possible. 

It  gets  on  one's  nerves  to  try  to  live  in  perpetual  exalta 
tion,  and  Theodora  was  very  often  cross.  Especially  was 
she  irritated  at  the  sight  of  Charley  Starr  being  driven 
home  from  school  by  a  coxcombical  groom,  in  a  large, 
gleaming,  red-wheeled  cart,  drawn  by  a  nobby  bob-tailed 
horse.  Theodora  herself  lived  just  one  block  away  from 


THE  PURPLE  STAR  115 

the  school,  and  walked  humbly  to  and  from  the  halls  of 
learning.  She  was  not  jealous  of  Charles,  but  he  annoyed 
her,  because  he  completely  upset  her  theory  that  all  very 
rich  children  were  correspondingly  stupid.  Usually  one 
could  work  out  the  law  of  compensation  very  pleasantly, 
and  in  a  way  that  was  extremely  complimentary  to  one's 
self.  The  only  way  in  which  she  could  revenge  herself  on 
her  wealthy,  fortunate,  scintillating  rival  was  to  call  meet 
ings  of  the  See-A-Star  Club  on  a  certain  street-corner  past 
which  Charley  and  his  liveried  groom  invariably  drove. 
And  when  Charles  was  conveyed  by,  self-consciously,  — 
he  hated  the  pomp  and  polish  which  his  mother  prided  her 
self  upon,  —  the  See-A-Star  Club  raised  eyes  and  right 
hands,  and  gave  its  ear-piercing,  steam-whistle  'ye\\.' 

Charles  always  blushed  deeply,  being  much  embarrassed 
before  the  groom,  and  tried  to  wheedle  Theodora  into  an 
explanation  of  her  acts.  She  was,  however,  iron-heart- 
edly  uncommunicative,  and  continued  her  persecutions. 

in 

On  a  certain  March  afternoon,  when  it  was  snowing  most 
unseasonably  hard,  and  the  children  were  drowsy  and  list 
less,  Miss  Prawl  dismissed  her  class  early,  with  instructions 
to  go  straight  home,  and  to  change  their  shoes  and  stock 
ings  the  minute  they  got  there.  On  account  of  the  deep, 
blinding  snow,  Theodora  reluctantly  called  off  the  meeting 
of  the  See-A-Star  Club,  and  as  she  plunged  home  through 
the  biting  icy  flakes,  she  mused  on  the  futility  of  even  try 
ing  to  get  a  purple  star.  There  was  no  use  in  hoping  to 
excel  Charley  Starr  in  the  matter  of  ordinary  stars,  because 
he  was  always  perfect.  Neither  he  nor  she  had  so  far  been 
absent  or  late,  and  neither  had  failed  in  anything.  The  only 
solution,  therefore,  was  to  invent  some  way  of  being  more 
than  perfect, 


116  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

As  the  snow  continued  to  fall  all  night,  and  was  still 
coming  down  the  next  morning,  Theodora,  besides  her 
usual  wraps,  wore  a  pair  of  shiny,  unused  rubber  boots,  a 
Christmas  present  from  her  grandmother,  who  had  always 
worn  rubber  boots  to  school  when  she  was  little,  and 
thought  that  girls  ought  to  now.  With  a  somewhat  lum 
bering  gait,  Theodora  waded  to  school,  and  arrived  just  in 
time  to  see  Charles  Augustus  Starr,  Junior,  being  magnifi 
cently  driven  up  in  a  regal  sleigh  with  great  accompanying 
jingling  of  bells,  and  waving  in  the  wind  of  red  and  yellow 
plumes.  Besides  Charley  and  Theodora,  very  few  of  the 
class  were  present;  and  as  for  chapel  —  well,  it  looked  deso 
late  and  emptily  bleak,  instead  of  being  hot  and  crowded  as 
usual. 

Miss  Prawl  went  through  the  lessons  rapidly,  and  at 
eleven  o'clock,  Mr.  Wadsmore  put  his  head  in  the  door, 
and  said  that  school  must  be  dismissed  at  once.  There  was 
a  high  gale,  and  the  children  were  to  go  home  as  quickly 
as  they  could  get  there. 

The  next  morning,  the  snowstorm  had  become  a  blizzard, 
a  dangerous  monster  of  a  blizzard,  in  fact  the  one  great 
historic  blizzard  —  the  blizzard  of  1888.  And  the  milkman 
left  no  milk  at  Theodora's  house  that  morning.  And  the 
rooms  were  so  dark  that  all  the  gas  in  the  house  had  to  be 
lit.  And  the  choreman  could  n't  come  to  fix  the  furnace, 
and  the  fire  went  out.  Everything  was  cold,  shivery,  and 
unreal.  Outside,  the  great  banks  of  snow  were  impene 
trable.  From  the  downstairs  rooms,  you  couldn't  have 
seen  people  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  —  supposing 
that  there  had  been  any  people  to  see.  A  policeman  went 
by  on  a  floundering  horse,  but  there  were  no  wagons,  and 
there  was  nobody  walking  — •  no  red-faced  jocose  postman, 
no  iceman,  no  sedate  business  men,  no  scurrying,  scamper 
ing  children. 


THE  PURPLE  STAR  117 

As  she  pulled  on  her  rubber  boots,  Theodora,  who  always 
planned  to  get  to  school  before  the  doors  were  opened,  de 
cided  to  allow  ten  minutes  extra  that  morning.  At  exactly 
half-past  eight,  the  Scotch  janitor  always  took  down  the 
big  bar  which  held  the  double  doors  in  place,  and  Theodora 
was  invariably  the  first  one  in.  It  was  not  necessary  for  her 
to  get  there  until  ten  minutes  of  nine,  but  she  never  ran 
the  slightest  risk  of  being  tardy.  In  all  her  life,  she  had 
never  been  tardy  or  absent. 

*  Don't  worry  about  me,  mother,  if  I  'm  late  to  luncheon/ 
said  Theodora,  as  she  appeared  in  the  dining-room  door. 
'It's  so  snowy  that  it  will  take  me  longer  than  usual.' 

'Theodora,  child/  remonstrated  Mrs.  Bowles,  'surely  you 
don't  think  that  I'm  going  to  allow  you  to  go  to  school?' 

'Why,  yes,  mother,'  said  Theodora,  with  horrible  mis 
giving  none  the  less. 

'You  couldn't  get  there  alive,'  declared  her  mother. 
'There's  no  one  on  the  street.  It  would  be  positively 
suicidal.' 

Theodora  began  with  tears,  and  just  the  usual  methods 
of  teasing;  then,  finding  these  trusty  old  friends  unavail 
ing,  she  launched  forth  into  impromptu  diplomatic  schemes 
for  extracting  a  'yes.'  She  tried  to  trap  her  mother  by 
means  of  a  system  of  cross -questioning,  and  she  endeavored 
to  weary  her,  until  she  should  impatiently  exclaim,  'Oh, 
for  mercy's  sake,  go! ' 

But  her  mother,  for  once,  was  relentless.  Her  father  had 
given  up  all  idea  of  going  to  his  office,  and  while  Theodora 
was  arguing  with  her  mother,  Mr.  Bowles  went  down  cellar 
to  build  a  furnace  fire.  He  very  rarely  visited  the  cellar, 
and  when  he  did,  he  always  returned  tremendously  upset 
about  something  or  other.  Consequently,  Theodora  teased 
in  a  low  voice  so  that  her  father  should  n't  hear  her  through 
the  registers.  She  hoped  to  win  her  mother's  consent  and 


118  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

get  away  before  her  father  wrathfully  returned.  Mrs. 
Bowles,  however,  seemed  to  get  more  flinty-hearted  every 
minute.  When  ten  minutes  of  nine  came,  and  then  nine 
minutes  of  nine,  Theodora  realized  that  never  again,  in  all 
her  life,  could  she  say,  'I  have  never  been  tardy.' 

She  still  hoped,  however,  that  some  higher  power  would 
intervene,  and  see  to  it  that  she  got  to  school  at  nine.  To 
be  tardy  was  disgraceful  enough,  but  to  be  absent  was  a 
crime  that  could  never  be  expiated.  Suddenly  she  ran  into 
the  library,  and  knelt  rigidly  on  a  rug  which  she  had  heard 
her  mother  refer  to  as  a  'prayer  rug.'  And  she  all  but 
prayed  the  soul  out  of  her  body  that  the  rug  would  change 
into  a  magic  carpet  on  which  she  could  be  transported  to 
school.  She  must  have  invoked  the  wrong  deity,  for  the 
rug  did  not  stir  even  a  hair's  breadth.  But  perhaps  kneeling 
was  not  enough;  perhaps  one  ought  to  lie  prone  on  the  rug 
and  pray. 

She  had  just  stretched  out,  full-length,  face  down,  when 
the  hall  clock  boomed  the  fatal  nine.  Now  she  was  both 
tardy  and  absent.  She  was  just  like  any  other  ordinary 
human  child  — •  she  was  undistinguished  in  any  way.  Well, 
there  was  really  no  use  in  continuing  to  live,  and  oh,  for  a 
convenient  way  to  die !  How  badly  her  mother  and  father 
would  feel  when  they  found  her  stretched  dead  on  the  piano 
bench,  and  how  they  would  blame  themselves  for  not  allow 
ing  her  to  have  her  way! 

Weeping  miserably  from  self-pity,  Theodora  pulled  off 
her  things,  and  sat  down  to  look  out  at  the  storm,  and  plan 
her  end. 

'Come,  Pussy,  don't  mope!'  exclaimed  her  father.  He 
had  just  finished  a  bitter  dissertation  on  the  short  life  of 
the  modern  coal-shovel  when  handled  by  the  choreman  of 
to-day,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  very  good-natured  again. 
'Let's  play  backgammon.' 


THE  PURPLE   STAR  119 

'I'm  tardy,  and  I'm  absent!'  moaned  Theodora,  who 
had  about  abandoned  the  idea  of  dying,  in  favor  of  disap 
pearing  forever. 

*  There  won't  be  any  school  on  such  a  day  as  this,'  said 
Mr.  Bowles,  consolingly.  '  Even  the  teachers  could  n't  get 
there  and  live.' 

This  happy  suggestion  made  Theodora  decidedly  less 
pensive.  Maybe  —  and  oh,  how  she  prayed  that  it  might 
be  so!  —  maybe  her  father  was  right,  and  maybe,  after  all, 
she  was  still  a  supreme  being  • — •  one  who  had  never  been 
tardy  or  absent.  As  the  day  wore  on,  she  became  more  and 
more  hopeful.  Her  greatest  comfort  of  all  was  the  thought 
that  Charles  Augustus  Starr,  Junior,  who  lived  over  two 
miles  from  school,  was  even  more  surely  a  prisoner  than 
herself. 

It  kept  right  on  snowing  that  night.  There  was  no  dis 
cussion  about  any  one's  going  out  the  following  day,  for 
the  whole  city  seemed  destined  to  be  buried  in  the  snow 
which  fell  unceasingly  from  low,  inexhaustible  clouds. 
Finally,  after  several  days,  when  people  were  becoming 
seriously  alarmed,  and  some  of  them  were  hungry,  the  snow 
stopped,  and  the  sky  turned  into  a  dazzling  blue  from  which 
a  blinding  sun  again  looked  down  on  a  new  white  city. 
And  then  men  began  to  open  their  front  doors  again,  and 
shovel  and  pant,  and  pant  and  shovel,  as  they  dug  their  way 
out  into  the  world.  Gradually  there  began  to  be  postmen 
and  butcher-boys  and  milk-men  and  horsecars  and  news 
paper-boys  and  policemen.  And  when  Theodora's  father 
started  for  his  office,  the  long-pent-up  Theodora  was  permit 
ted  to  go  to  school. 

IV 

Although  the  small  paths  on  the  sidewalk  were  so  slip 
pery  that  the  most  nimble-footed  kept  tumbling  down, 


120  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

Theodora  was,  as  usual,  the  first  child  against  the  school 
door.  And  she  was  the  first  to  burst  into  the  silent  building 
when  the  Scotch  janitor  took  down  the  bar,  and  the  first 
to  dash  up  the  creaky  wooden  stairs.  Racing  down  the 
echoing  hall,  she  tore  off  her  things  in  the  dressing  room, 
and  rushed  into  Room  H,  fearing  she  knew  not  what.  And 
the  sight  that  she  saw  on  the  blackboard  made  her  blood 
run  cold.  During  her  enforced  absence,  the  very  worst  had 
happened.  At  the  end  of  the  long  line  of  stars  which  fol 
lowed  the  name  of  Charles  Augustus  was  a  prominent,  un 
mistakably  new  star.  It  was  larger  than  any  of  the  pink 
or  "blue  or  red  or  green  or  yellow  stars,  and  there  was  no 
doubt  about  it,  for  the  sun  shone  warmly  on  the  black 
board  :  the  new  star  opposite  her  rival's  name  was  — •  pur 
ple.  The  new  boy,  Coal-Cart  Starr's  son,  the  skipper  of 
classes,  the  groom-escorted,  never-absent,  late,  or  wrong 
Charley  Starr,  had  attained  the  unattainable. 

Slowly  Theodora  put  her  books  into  her  desk,  and  sat  in 
her  place,  waiting  grimly  for  Miss  Prawl.  It  was  only  a 
few  minutes  later  that  the  teacher  came  in,  rosy  from  her 
short  run  through  the  snowy  street,  — •  she  lived  only  three 
doors  from  the  school,  —  and  said  cheerfully,  without  look 
ing  the  least  bit  guilty,  — 

*  Good  morning,  Theodora/ 

Theodora  could  not  reply.  All  the  while  the  other  chil 
dren  were  bouncing  in  with  shiny,  apple-red  cheeks,  and  a 
great  flourishing  of  clean  white  pocket  handkerchiefs,  The 
odora  sat  as  still  as  a  little  China  image.  In  the  midst  of 
her  chagrin,  she  dreaded  meeting  the  exultant  look  which 
she  knew  would  be  in  the  eyes  of  the  winner  of  the  purple 
star.  Every  time  any  one  came  in  from  the  hall,  Theodora 
jumped  from  nervousness.  But  she  jumped  in  vain,  be 
cause  Charley  Starr  failed  to  appear.  Even  when  it  was 
ten  minutes  of  nine,  Charley  Starr  had  not  come.  With  a 


THE  PURPLE   STAR  121 

triumphant  lilt  of  the  heart,  Theodora  thought,  *  Charley 
Starr  is  late!' 

At  nine  o'clock,  it  dawned  upon  her  that  Charley  Starr 
was  not  coming  to  school  at  all.  And  at  the  same  time,  an 
unexplained  lump  of  uncomfortable  bigness  suddenly  de 
veloped  in  her  throat.  She  was  afraid  —  afraid  that  some 
thing  had  happened  to  Charley  Starr.  She  did  not  know 
why,  but  a  panic  of  terror  seized  her.  It  was  the  first  big 
real  fear  of  her  life.  The  purple  star  on  the  blackboard 
became  the  sign  of  some  heroic  tragedy.  Where,  where, 
where  was  Charley  Starr? 

'Well,  girls  and  boys,'  began  Miss  Prawl,  'we  have  all 
been  taking  a  very  unexpected  vacation.  And  there  has 
been  no  school  at  all  since  you  were  all  here  before.' 

Theodora's  heart  nippety-fiopped  with  relief.  All  her 
sufferings  had  been  in  vain :  she  was  still  a  supreme  being. 
But  what  was  the  thing  in  Miss  Prawl's  face  which  made 
one  sit  so  deadly  still,  and  grasp  the  desk-cover  so  tight? 

'I  came  to  school  on  the  first  morning  of  the  blizzard, 
because  I  live  so  near.  And  one  other  person  came,  too.' 
Her  little  audience  began  to  look  frightened.  'The  only 
child  who  came  that  morning  was  brought  in  unconscious.' 

Charley  Starr  was  dead  —  Theodora  had  known  it  all 
along. 

'  At  six  o'clock  on  the  first  morning  of  the  blizzard,  Char 
ley  Starr,  without  any  one's  knowing  he  was  awake,  went 
out  to  his  father's  stable,  and  managed  to  saddle  one  of  the 
horses.  And  in  order  not  to  be  late  to  school,  he  left  home 
at  half -past  six,  and  rode  through  the  blinding  snow,  until, 
at  nine  o'clock,  he  reached  the  school.  And  when  he  finally 
got  here,  he  was  so  exhausted  that  he  tumbled  off  the  horse 
into  a  snow-drift.  If  the  janitor  had  n't  happened  to  see 
him,  there  would  be  no  Charley  Starr  in  our  class,  or  in  the 
world  to-day.  But  the  janitor  did  see  him;  and  so,  although 


122  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

Charley  is  pretty  sick,  he's  going  to  get  better  and  come 
back  to  us  again.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  very  brave 
of  Charles  to  try  to  come  to  school,  and  so  I  gave  him  the 
purple  star.  He  does  n't  know  it  yet,  but  I  am  going  to 
write  to  him  to-day.  And  I  want  every  girl  and  every  boy 
who  thinks  I  was  right  in  giving  him  the  star  to  clap  with 
all  his  might.' 

The  spontaneous  applause  that  at  once  shook  the  walls 
was  due  in  part  to  enthusiasm  for  Charley  Starr.  Most  of 
the  noise,  however,  was  caused  by  the  exuberant  joy  of 
being  allowed,  for  once,  to  make  as  much  racket  as  one 
could  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  Room  H.  Every  one 
set  to  work  to  blister  his  hands;  every  one  but  Theodora, 
who  sat  with  folded  arms  and  with  burning,  accusing  eyes 
fixed  on  Miss  Prawl.  Holding  up  her  hand  for  silence,  Miss 
Prawl,  with  an  inexplicable  sinking  of  heart,  said,  — 

' Well,  Theodora?' 

Theodora  rose,  white-lipped. 

*  Miss  Prawl,  if  I  'd  disobeyed  my  parents,  or  stolen  out 
when  they  did  n't  know  it,  I  might  have  come  to  school  and 
had  a  purple  star.  I  was  n't  scared.  /  wanted  to  come.  I 
prayed  to  come.'  She  knew  this  last  statement  would  have 
to  be  lived  down  later,  but  at  this  hazardous  moment,  she 
cared  not  for  that.  'I'd  have  walked  till  I  died,  if  they'd 
let  me.' 

Before  she  had  time  to  sit  down  again,  an  unexpected 
adherent  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  person  of  Fred 
dy  Beal,  the  class  dunce. 

'So  would  I!'  shouted  Freddy,  desirous  to  support  the 
distinguished  Theodora,  and  at  the  same  time  to  win  a 
little  unaccustomed  prominence  for  himself.  '  They  caught 
me  just  as  I  was  shinnying  over  the  back  fence,  and  they 
had  to  lock  me  up  to  keep  me  home.  I  ain't  "gone"  on 
school,  but  it  would  have  been  fun  to  come  that  day!  It 


THE  PURPLE  STAR  123 

was  the  only  day  I  ever  wanted  to  come  to  school.  Charley 
Starr  had  n't  ought  to  get  no  purple  star.  That  stunt  of 
his  wa'n't  brav'ry.' 

The  greatest  and  the  least  having  been  heard  from,  every 
one  in  the  class  then  felt  called  upon  to  rise  up  and  say 
that  his  soul  had  been  sick  within  him  because  he  was  not 
permitted  to  come  to  school  the  first  day  of  the  blizzard. 
Miss  Prawl  was  devoutly  wishing  that  she  had  abolished 
the  purple  star  before  such  zealots  as  the  critical  Theodora 
and  her  followers  had  darkened  the  door  of  Room  H,  when, 
as  if  drawn  into  the  discussion  by  Fate,  Mr.  Wadsmore 
entered,  with  a  brilliant  smile  for  the  class  and  a  rather 
serious  look  for  Miss  Prawl.  He  handed  her  a  note,  and 
said  mysteriously,  — 

'From  an  I.  P.  And  I'm  afraid  I  think  he's  right.' 

To  the  great  delight  of  everyone,  Mr.  Wadsmore  turned 
to  the  class,  and  joked  about  an  impossible,  prehistoric 
period  when  he  was  a  small  boy,  • —  he  now  weighed  nearly 
two  hundred,- — while  Miss  Prawl,  with  damask  cheeks 
and  too  brilliant  eyes  read  the  note  from  the  Irate  Parent. 
This  note  was  written  with  violet  ink  on  heavily  perfumed 
paper  with  a  gold  coat  of  arms  and  a  gold  border,  and  it 
read :  — 

936  CLINTON  AVENUE 
MY  DEAR  MR.  WADSMORE,  — 

On  close  questioning,  I  find  that  my  son  Charles  was 
actuated  in  his  dare-devil  adventure  of  leaving  for  school 
at  six-thirty  o'clock  on  the  first  morning  of  the  blizzard  by 
a  desire  to  win  a  purple-chalk  star.  He  knows  that  he  very 
nearly  lost  his  life,  and  he  is  hoping  that  his  rash  act  may 
be  rewarded  in  the  foolish  way  I  mentioned  above.  He 
considers  that  he  is  a  hero,  unappreciated  at  home,  and  he 
is  working  himself  into  a  fever  over  the  whole  thing. 

I  am  a  plain  man  [Miss  Prawl' s  eyes  wandered  to  the 


124  THE  PURPLE  STAR 

coat  of  arms]  and  I  greatly  disapprove  of  such  methods  in 
education.  Unless  you  can  do  away  with  your  purple-star 
system  immediately,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  transfer  Charles 
to  another  private  school  which  is  nearer,  and  therefore 
more  convenient. 

Awaiting  your  reply,  I  am 

Very  truly  yours, 

CHARLES  AUGUSTUS  STARR. 

Miss  Prawl  read  the  note  in  a  flash,  snatched  up  the 
eraser,  rubbed  out  the  purple  star,  opened  the  chalk  box, 
and  dropped  the  purple  chalk  in  the  wastebasket. 

'  What  Theodora  said  about  the  purple  star  is  quite  true,' 
she  said,  soberly.  *  And  I  shall  never  give  any  one  a  purple 
star.  Never!' 

As  Mr.  Wadsmore  left  the  room  with  an  approving  smile 
at  Miss  Prawl,  Theodora's  eyes  grew  soft  and  bright,  and 
she  sighed  with  pathetic  relief.  For  the  first  time  since  she 
had  heard  of  the  purple  star,  the  world  seemed  altogether 
right. 


HUGOS  —  R.O.T.C. 

BY   WILLIAM   ADDLEMAN   GANOE 


IT  was  only  because  it  was  the  middle  of  the  night  that 
the  barracks  of  Company  Number  1  lay  quiet.  Even  at 
that  solitary  hour  the  squares  of  moonlight  from  its  sliding 
windows  revealed  two  long  huddled  rows  of  Gold  Medal 
cots  creaking  with  the  turnings  of  one  hundred  and  sixty 
restless  sleepers. 

Down  toward  the  end  of  Squad  15,  Joseph  Morley  Ruggs 
lay  wrapped  in  dreams  more  troubled  than  was  his  wont. 
The  *  Meter '  was  standing  before  him,  writing  with  a  feath 
ered  sword  in  a  giant  book,  *  Thou  art  weighed  in  the  bal 
ance  and  found  — '  The  words  kept  spreading  until  the  d 
was  crushed  against  the  edge  of  the  page.  The  Meter's 
eyes  became  flaming  nozzles,  which  shot  waves  of  gas  into 
Ruggs's  unmasked  face.  There  was  a  crashing  sound  of 
many  bands,  playing  mostly  upon  cymbals. 

All  at  once  the  *  U.S. 'on  the  Meter's  collar  and  the  silver 
bars  on  his  shoulders  became  incandescent,  his  body  length 
ened  out  like  Aladdin's  genie,  and  he  slowly  disappeared 
upward  in  a  whirl  of  smoke,  mounted  on  the  shaft  of  a  rifle 
grenade  —  and  Ruggs  was  left  alone,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
rectangular  parchment  headed,  *  Honorable  Discharge 
from  the  service  of  the  United  States.' 

When  he  raised  his  head  Alice,  with  sorrowful  eyes,  was 
looking  him  through  and  through  —  Alice,  whom  he  had 
left  a  month  before  with  the  trembling  words  of  acquies 
cence  on  her  lips  and  a  kiss  of  hope  at  his  departure.  There 


126  HUGOS  —  R.O.T.C. 

she  stood,  shaking  a  finger  of  scorn  at  the  paper  of  Failure 
in  his  hand. 

The  earth  was  giving  way  under  him.  As  he  sank  lower 
and  lower,  voices  grew  abundant  about  him;  and  there 
arose  a  continuous  clatter  of  rifle-bolts,  bayonets,  and 
mess-tins.  A  bugle  somewhere  was  sounding  the  assembly. 
The  company  in  the  dusky  distance  was  falling  in  under 
arms;  the  corporals  were  about  to  report,  and  he,  Candi 
date  Ruggs,  would  be  absent. 

He  tried  to  hurry  over  dressing  himself;  but  his  arms 
worked  in  jerks,  and  when  he  attempted  to  run,  his  legs 
merely  pulled  and  pushed  back  and  forth  heavily  in  one 
spot.  Frantically  he  struggled  to  make  headway  against 
the  solid  air,  but  in  vain.  With  a  supreme  effort  he  lunged 
forward  —  and  came  down  at  the  side  of  his  cot  on  both 
feet,  with  a  resounding  shock  that  made  the  boards  of  the 
flimsy  barracks  rattle. 

'For  Gawd's  sake,'  growled  the  Duke  of  Squad  15,  rising 
on  his  elbow,  *  don't  you  get  enough  settin'-up  stuff  in  the 
daytime  without  jarrin'  your  muscles  when  decent  folks 
sleep?' 

'Who  fell  into  the  trench?'  inquired  Naughty,  his  legal 
mind  going  to  the  bottom  of  the  matter. 

'No  use  tryin'  to  sleep  around  here/  continued  the  Duke 
with  a  groan.  '  Got  to  get  a  pass  and  lock  yourself  in  a 
hotel  over  Saturday  and  Sunday.' 

Some  one  in  the  middle  of  barracks  was  attempting  to 
search  out  with  a  pocket-flash  the  cause  of  the  excitement. 

'  Use  of  —  star  —  shells  —  specially  successful  — 'gainst 
active  enemy  —  in  No  Man's  Land,'  droned  the  great 
voice  of  small  Squirmy  in  a  far  corner. 

And  the  disturbance  subsided  with  several  chuckles, 
allowing  Ruggs  to  dispose  himself  upon  his  rumpled  sheets 
without  further  fire  upon  him. 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  127 

In  the  morning,  as  he  stood  in  ranks  at  reveille,  he  was 
secretly  relieved  to  note  the  Meter's  normal  appearance, 
and  his  life-sized  pencil,  though  that  active  instrument  was 
spelling  out  death  to  some  career  possibly  at  that  moment. 
Degradation  to  the  name  of  Ruggs  had  not  yet  come;  the 
chance  to  be  included  among  the  commissioned  few  at  the 
end  of  camp  lay  before  him  as  a  possibility. 

He  was  wakened  smartly  from  his  musings.  'Dress  up, 
put  up  your  arm!  you  still  asleep?' 

The  Duke,  who  had  been  a  sergeant  in  the  National 
Guard  for  six  years,  realized  that,  since  the  Meter  was  near 
at  hand,  it  was  a  fortunate  time  to  make  penetrating  cor 
rections.  The  awe  and  respect  which  had  bestowed  on 
him  the  name  of  Duke  on  account  of  his  knowledge  of  the 
rudiments,  were  now,  in  the  squad  over  which  he  had 
tyrannized  as  acting  corporal,  beginning  to  wane. 

Ruggs  put  up  his  arm,  every  bristling  hair  of  his  mouse- 
colored  head  erect  with  fury.  It  was  difficult  for  a  man 
fifteen  years  out  of  college,  who  had  by  dint  of  energy  and 
foresight  worked  his  way  to  the  superintendency  of  one  of 
the  largest  banking  houses  in  the  East,  to  take  orders  from 
a  grocery  clerk  much  younger  and  of  slight  education. 
*  Every  kind  of  military  communication  should  be  imper 
sonal/  These  words  of  the  Meter  came  to  him  oppor 
tunely.  He  fastened  his  mind  on  the  details  for  the  follow 
ing  day  which  the  first  sergeant  was  then  reading  out,  and 
was  rewarded. 

*  For  company  commander  to-morrow  —  Ruggs ! ' 

'He-re!'    His  voice  came  all  cracked  and  husky. 

'You'd  better  get  onto  those  drill  regs  and  get  up  that 
company  stuff,'  admonished  the  Duke  at  breakfast.  'I 
always  find  I  can  get  along  better  after  givin'  it  a  once-over, 
no  matter  how  well  I  know  it.' 

Ruggs  made  no  reply.     He  was  lost  in  the  thought  of  the 


128  HUGOS  —  R.O.T.C. 

chance  he  had  waited  for  through  thirty-five  days  of  slav 
ery.  His  opportunity  had  come. 

It  was  a  red-letter  day  because  of  another  circumstance. 
For  the  first  time  he  had  been  called  by  name  by  the  Meter 
at  the  morning  conference. 

The  elation  was  so  great  that,  when  a  note  from  Alice  in 
the  noon  mail  told  him  that  she  would  spend  the  week-end 
near  the  camp,  he  had  only  time  to  reflect  on  what  joy  his 
success  in  handling  the  company  would  bring  her.  Every 
spare  minute  during  the  afternoon  and  evening  he  concen 
trated  on  close-order  drill.  Not  satisfied  with  the  snatches 
thus  taken,  he  disappeared  after  taps,  with  his  books  and  a 
small  improvised  stool,  into  the  lavatory,  where  there  was 
still  a  faint  light  from  two  badly  arranged  bulbs.  There  he 
delved  into  combat  work  and  reviewed  the  company  drill. 
It  was  one  o'clock  before  he  crawled  dizzily  into  bed,  with 
reveille  before  him  at  five-thirty. 

He  woke  at  five  with  a  start.  This  was  the  day  of  his 
trial.  Although  he  had  stood  at  the  head  of  ventures  in 
volving  millions,  no  day  of  his  life  had  seemed  to  him  so 
full  of  hazard.  The  fact  that  he  had  made  good  in  civil 
life,  he  understood,  meant  nothing  in  his  favor  in  a  mili 
tary  way.  For  only  the  previous  week  Cyrus  Long,  an  in 
dustrial  manager,  with  a  salary  of  fifteen  thousand  a  year, 
had  been  told  plainly  by  the  Meter  that  he  could  not  make 
good.  And  Cy  had  left  with  the  first  failure  of  a  lifetime 
in  his  wake. 

When  Ruggs,  making  every  inch  of  his  five  feet  eleven 
count  as  the  Meter  approached,  commanded  *  Company, 
attention ! '  his  accent  was  very  unlike  the  ideal  one  he  had 
planned  to  use.  He  noted  the  men  in  ranks  eyeing  him  as 
much  as  to  say,  '  Well,  how  are  you  going  to  handle  us  this 
morning?' 

'Give  the  company  ten  minutes'  close-order  drill,  after 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  129 

which  proceed  with  fifteen  minutes  of  extended  order  under 
battle  conditions.' 

The  Meter  shot  the  words  out  in  two  definite  explosions. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  such  instructions  had  been 
issued,  but  Ruggs  asked  no  questions. 

'Squads  right!'  he  sang  out  (meaning  secretly  squads 
left);  then  added,  'March!'  in  a  surprised  and  subdued 
tone  that  he  had  not  intended. 

On  the  whole  the  first  of  the  drill  went  along  fairly  well, 
except  that  at  times  some  of  the  men  were  unable  to  hear 
his  commands,  and  he  knew  that  they  knew  that  he  contin 
ually  meant  right  when  he  said  left,  and  vice  versa  - — •  which 
did  not  add  to  his  authority.  But  he  was  too  honest  to 
'bluff'  the  matter  before  the  Meter,  each  time  admitting 
the  error  by  a  loud '  As  you  were ! '  and  setting  them  straight 
without  delay. 

When  the  extended  order  part  of  the  drill  began,  he 
inadvertently  made  his  deployment  so  that  one  flank 
fanned  out  across  the  commanding  officer's  lawn. 

'Halt  your  company!'  roared  the  Meter.  'Company 
commander  report  here ! ' 

Ruggs  yelled  a  demoralized  'Halt!'  and  ran  to  the  cap 
tain. 

'Who's  in  command  of  this  company?' 

'I  am,  sir.' 

'It  does  n't  appear  so;  or  possibly  you  wanted  them  to 
dance  over  the  colonel's  lawn?' 

'No,  sir.' 

'Then  why  did  you  put  them  there?' 

'I  didn't  mean  to,  sir.' 

'You  did  n't  mean  not  to,  did  you?' 

'No,  sir.' 

*  You  lead  your  command  out  over  a  fire-swept  zone,  and 

after  it  is  decimated,  you  make  a  report  that  you  did  n't 
10 


130  RUGGS  —  R.O.T.C. 

mean  to  place  it  there.  How  will  that  look  when  the  dead 
are  counted?' 

'Not  very  well,  sir/ 

'Go  place  your  company  where  it  belongs.' 

Ruggs  saluted  and  ran  toward  the  centre  of  the  line,  yell 
ing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  *  Assemble,  assemble,  ASSEMBLE 
over  here!' 

'Come  back!'  shouted  the  Meter. 

But  Ruggs  was  so  intent  on  gathering  up  the  tramplers 
of  the  colonel's  lawn  that  he  did  not  hear. 

'Company  commander  —  Mr.  Ruggs!'  repeated  the 
Meter,  putting  all  his  power  against  his  diaphragm. 

Ruggs  returned,  his  thick  chest  heaving,  his  hair  matted, 
and  a  drop  of  perspiration  clinging  to  the  end  of  his  big 
Roman  nose. 

'How  was  this  drill  to  be  conducted?'  snapped  his  tor 
turer. 

'Under  battle  conditions,  sir.' 

'Do  you  suppose  that  the  company  stretched  over  a 
space  of  two  hundred  yards,  while  the  barrage  fire  was 
going  on,  could  hear  such  caterwauling  as  you've  been  at 
tempting?  What  should  you  do?' 

'Use  whistle  and  signal,  sir.' 

'Have  I  not  directed* you  to  do  so  heretofore?' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

'  Either  malicious  or  wooden  —  take  your  choice !  Pro 
ceed  with  your  drill.' 

Cut  to  the  quick,  Ruggs  thought  hard  what  to  do  in  his 
predicament.  The  studious,  sleepless  night  was  beginning 
to  tell  on  him,  but  he  called  to  his  memory  the  signal  for 
'Assemble'  and  blew  a  stout  blast  on  his  whistle.  He  felt 
the  Meter  behind  his  back  making  damaging  notes  in  the 
book,  and  the  glances  of  his  fellows  before  him  betraying 
pity  and  superiority.  The  number  of  errors  increased  with 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  131 

the  length  of  the  drill.  Each  time  the  Meter  summoned 
him,  the  criticisms  were  more  caustic.  At  last  he  waved 
his  arms  in  unknown  combinations  and  directions.  But 
whenever  the  Meter  stopped  him,  he  was  able,  with  much 
teeth-gritting  that  made  his  jaw  muscles  swell  his  cheeks, 
to  set  the  movement  straight  without  excitement. 

In  the  afternoon,  during  a  march  along  the  road,  the 
Meter  directed  the  company  to  be  halted  and  its  comman 
der  to  report  to  him. 

*  Mr.  Ruggs,  you  see  that  little  bluff  about  four  hundred 
yards  to  the  left  of  this  road?' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

'You  have  been  marching  along  here  as  the  advance 
party  to  your  advance  guard,  when  suddenly  you  receive  a 
burst  of  fire  from  that  bluff,  which  you  estimate  to  be  di 
rected  by  about  a  platoon.  What  do  you  do?' 

'  I'd  tell  them  to—' 

'I  did  n't  ask  you  what  you'd  tell.  I  asked  you  what 
you'd  do.' 

'I'd  put  them,  sir  — 

4 Put  who?' 

'I'd  put  the  company  — ' 

'  You  speak  of  the  company  as  if  it  were  a  bird-cage  or  a 
jack-knife.' 

*  Sir,  I  just  wanted  — 

*  I  just  asked  you  what  YOU  would  do  —  do  you  get  it? ' 
By  this  time  Ruggs  was  so  aroused  that  every  fibre  of 

his  mind  was  alert.  Instead  of  being  more  confused,  he 
was  able  to  concentrate  more  acutely  than  before.  He 
pulled  his  whistle  from  his  pocket  and  blew  it  almost  in  the 
Meter's  face,  at  the  same  time  signaling  to  the  company  to 
deploy  and  lie  down. 

'That  will  do,'  snorted  the  Meter.  'March  your  com 
pany  back  to  barracks!' 


132  RUGGS— R.O.T.C. 

Ruggs  replaced  his  whistle  in  his  pocket  in  a  hang-dog 
way  which  showed  that  he  was  convinced  that  his  doom 
was  sealed. 

'Squads  right!'  he  commanded.  'As  you  were!  I 
mean,  squads  left !  —  Oh,  steady !  Squads  right  about ! 
March!' 

The  company,  at  route  step,  had  become  a  ripple  of 
mirth  from  end  to  end. 

'O  Ruggsie!'  shouted  the  Duke,  'I  know  a  good  civilian 
tailor!' 

The  remark  brought  on  a  quantity  of  local  laughter,  and 
Naughty  did  not  help  matters  much  by  starting,  'Keep 
the  home  fires  burning.' 

That  evening  the  flank  of  Company  Number  1  individ 
ually  condoled  with  Ruggs,  who  was  trying  to  decipher 
how  he  could  be  so  full  of  so  many  different  kinds  of  mis 
takes. 

'He's  got  the  raspberry  all  right,'  commented  the  Duke, 
before  a  large  group,  including  Ruggs. 

The  'raspberry,'  be  it  said,  was  the  name  applied  to  the 
Sword  of  Damocles  suspended  by  the  Meter.  When  he 
called  a  failing  candidate  into  the  orderly  room  and  im 
plied  that  a  resignation  would  be  in  order,  that  lost  soul 
was  known  the  company  over  as  'getting  the  raspberry,' 
or  'rasp.' 

ii 

Just  before  taps,  after  life  had  become  subdued  through 
study,  the  small  red-headed  form  of  Squirmy  was  observed 
making  its  way  to  the  centre  of  the  long  room.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  black  overcoat  fished  from  the  bottom  of  a 
trunk.  A  white  tie  torn  from  a  stricken  sheet  made  a 
flaring  bow  at  his  neck,  and  goggles  and  an  old  cap-cover 
served  as  headgear.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a  Webster's 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  133 

Unabridged,  which  he  placed  on  an  old  box  previously  used 
for  the  same  purpose. 

*  St  I  The  Exhorter  of  Squad  21 !'  came  in  whispers  from 
a  dozen  throats;  and  the  room  became  still. 

Squirmy  searched  his  half-dressed  congregation  wither  - 
ingly  over  the  tops  of  his  spectacles.  Then  from  his  small 
body  proceeded  slow  tones  of  thunder,  — 

'  And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  "  Squads  right ! "  (Dram 
atic  pause.) 

'But  Moses  —  not  being  a  military  man  —  commanded, 
"Squads  left!"  (Longer  pause.) 

'And  great  —  was  the  confusion  —  among  the  candid- 
ites. 

'Peace  be  with  you/  he  concluded,  pointing  an  accusing 
finger  at  Ruggs ;  and  the  company  went  to  bed  holding  their 
abdomens. 

After  the  last  drill  on  Saturday  Alice  arrived  with  her 
machine,  chauffeur,  and  chaperone.  When  she  spied 
Ruggs  across  the  parade,  with  twenty-two  pounds  of  office 
flabbiness  gone,  his  hardened  muscles  holding  his  shoulders 
and  neck  erect  underneath  his  khaki,  an  unmistakable  ad 
miration  filled  her  wide  hazel  eyes. 

For  a  moment  his  gladness  was  unalloyed,  and  the  dis 
appointments  of  crowded  barracks  and  tangled  drills  faded 
utterly  away.  But  as  the  day  wore  on,  the  pleasure  grew 
limp  in  the  face  of  the  bleak  future.  His  mind  was  re 
peatedly  met  with  the  question,  'Shall  I  tell  her?'  and  he 
always  turned  on  himself  with  the  reply,  'I  am  not  yet 
through.' 

The  unacknowledged  dullness  between  them  finally 
drove  them  into  the  distraction  of  a  movie  theatre.  There, 
in  the  darkness,  she  caught  stealthy  glimpses  of  his  tight 
ened  jaw  and  distressed  face. 


134  RUGGS  — R.O.T.C. 

'It's  going  to  be  very  hard  on  him;  he'll  be  so  disap 
pointed,'  she  said  to  herself. 

At  the  same  time,  while  apparently  following  the  antics 
of  Mary  Pickf ord,  he  was  thinking, '  It's  going  to  be  so  hard 
on  her !  She'll  be  so  disappointed  in  me ! ' 

When  she  had  gone,  and  he  found  himself  once  more 
seated  on  his  bunk  in  desolation,  he  berated  himself  vio 
lently:— 

'  I  must  have  treated  her  badly.  This  will  not  do.  I've 
never  given  up  before.  I've  got  to  pull  myself  up  to  my 
best  if  it  's  only  a  corporal's  job.  It's  better  to  be  a  man 
than  a  higher-up  anyway.  Good  God,  I  can  serve  better 
by  going  where  I'm  put  than  where  I  want  to  be  put!  True 
patriotism,  after  all,  is  filling  the  niche,  whatever  — ' 

'Say,  Ruggsie,'  burst  in  the  Duke  from  the  side  door, 
'big  doin's  here  Monday.  Big  review  for  a  Russian  gen 
eral.  This  company  is  goin'  to  be  divided  into  two  —  A 
and  B  companies.' 

Ruggsie  was  silent. 

'Don't  you  care  anything  about  it? '  continued  the  Duke. 

'I'm  not  interested  in  reviews  —  to  be  frank.' 

'  Say,  old  fellow,  you  don't  need  to  get  so  down  because 
you  tied  up  that  drill  the  other  day.  Course,  there's  a 
great  deal  to  know  about  this  military  game.  At  first  I 
was  pretty  green  myself.  May  be  in  a  second  camp  you 
can  get  onto  the  stuff.' 

Ruggs  was  not  desirous  of  discussing  the  matter  with  the 
Duke,  who,  having  been  given  the  natural  opportunity, 
filled  the  gap  with  conversation. 

'You  know  the  Meter  called  me  and  that  Reserve  Lieu 
tenant  Sullivan  into  the  orderly  room  and  told  us  we  were 
goin'  to  be  in  command  of  the  two  companies.  He  went 
over  with  us  just  how  we  were  goin'  to  do.  He's  a  first- 
rate  chap  —  the  Meter  is.  First  we  line  up  along  the  road 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  135 

near  the  gate,  and  then  we  march  to  the  parade-ground  and 
review.  I  know  every  command  I'm  goin'  to  give  right 
down  in  order  —  could  say  'em  off  backwards.  That's  the 
way  to  know  your  drill.' 

At  supper  the  Duke  leaned  over  the  table  toward  Vance, 
a  broker  from  Wall  Street  who  had  spent  the  previous  sum 
mer  at  Plattsburg,  and  observed  confidentially,  — 

'Do  you  know,  Vance,  I'd  like  to  have  you  as  my  first 
lieutenant  when  I'm  a  captain.  You  suit  me  O.K.  I  like 
the  way  you  drill.' 

Vance,  immaculately  neat  and  clean-shaven,  acknowl 
edged  the  remark  with  a  bow  and  went  on  eating.  Morti 
mer,  just  out  of  Dartmouth,  aged  twenty -two,  gazed  at  the 
Duke  with  that  deference  with  which  Gareth  first  looked 
upon  Lancelot. 

At  three  o'clock  Monday  afternoon  the  twenty  compan 
ies  of  the  training  camp  were  drawn  up  ready  to  display 
themselves  to  the  Russian  general.  Automobiles  were 
parked  thickly  on  the  roadways,  making  a  black,  gray,  and 
brown  banded  circle  around  the  parade-ground.  Under 
the  dense  fringe  of  trees,  the  many -colored  gowns  of  the 
women  edged  the  green  like  a  thick  hedge  of  sweet  peas. 
The  heat  and  stillness  had  settled  down  over  the  camp 
tensely. 

The  dignitary,  eagerly  awaited,  was  overdue.  The 
Duke,  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  hat-band  in 
front  of  the  long  column  of  companies  standing  at  ease, 
congratulated  himself  on  the  certainty  with  which  he  would 
give  the  appropriate  commands  at  various  points  before 
him  on  the  level  stretch  of  grass.  Conscious  fingering  of 
his  pistol-holster  indicated  his  belief  in  the  Meter's  choice. 

A  half -hour  passed  and  the  general  had  not  arrived.  All 
at  once,  the  band,  contrary  t6  plan,  started  to  move  diag 
onally  across  the  parade-ground.  A  mounted  orderly 


136  RUGGS  — R.O.T.C. 

popped  out  from  a  group  of  regular  officers  and  galloped 
straight  toward  the  Duke. 

'The  major's  compliments/  he  announced.  'The  cere 
mony  along  the  road-side  will  be  dispensed  with.  You  are 
to  march  your  company  to  the  line  for  review  at  once,  sir.' 

The  field  music  struck  up  adjutant's  call,  which  was  the 
signal  for  the  first  company  to  form  line. 

'  Squads  left ! '  shouted  the  Duke  in  most  military  fashion. 

It  was  the  command  that  he  had  rehearsed  to  start  the 
company  from  the  roadway  to  the  ceremony  proper  — 
the  opposite  direction  from  the  one  toward  the  spot  where 
the  line  should  now  be  formed. 

'March!'  he  added,  without  seeing  his  error.  And  the 
company  wheeled  off  toward  the  woods  away  from  the  visi 
tors,  away  from  the  band,  away  from  everybody. 

'  Damn  me ! '  he  muttered,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  vanishing  goal.  Then  he  roared,  'Column  left! 
March!' 

Again  he  had  steered  the  head  of  the  column  in  an  oppo 
site  direction  from  the  one  intended.  B  and  C  companies 
were  now  directly  between  his  objective  and  his  organi 
zation,  which  was  marching  farther  away  with  every  step. 
He  realized  that  he  had  taken  time  enough  to  be  well  on  the 
way  toward,  instead  of  away  from,  the  spot  where  the  ad 
jutant  was  waiting  for  him. 

'Squadsleftmarch!'  he  bellowed  desperately. 

The  company,  in  the  shape  of  an  L,  not  having  com 
pleted  the  turn  in  column,  now  accordioned  its  flanks  to 
ward  each  other,  intermingling  inextricably.  The  organi 
zation  became  at  once  a  crowd  of  fellows  with  rifles. 

'Halt!  Halt!  Halt!' the  Duke  exploded;  and  immedi 
ately  fell  into  helpless  bewilderment. 

There  was  a  dreadful  pause,  during  which  beads  of  per 
spiration  dropped  from  his  face,  making  black  spots  on  his 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  137 

starched  clothing.  His  arm  and  fingers  twitched  and  he 
blinked  horribly. 

'What  a  steadying  influence  he'll  have  on  Vance!'  whis 
pered  some  one  near  Ruggs,  who,  through  compassion,  was 
unable  to  feel  mirthful. 

The  same  orderly  galloped  up  for  the  second  time  and 
delivered  an  ultimatum  from  the  major  in  no  uncertain 
language.  Several  platoon  leaders  sprang  forward  and 
succeeded  in  getting  the  company  started  in  the  right  direc 
tion.  But  the  strain  had  weakened  the  Duke's  nerve  to 
such  an  extent  that  he  was  slow  in  dressing  his  company 
and  failed  to  give  *  Eyes  right '  in  time,  when  actually  pass 
ing  in  review  under  the  scrutiny  of  the  general  himself. 

And  all  this  time  the  Meter  had  been  hovering  about, 
using  his  eyes  mightily  and  his  mouth  not  at  all. 

Back  in  barracks  when  ranks  were  broken,  there  were  no 
remarks  made  openly  on  the  leadership  of  the  Duke.  He 
had  been  a  trusty  drill-master  and,  it  was  reported,  had  a 
*  stand-in'  with  the  Meter.  It  was  not  discreet  to  taunt 
him. 

Indeed,  it  had  been  such  a  soakingly  hot  proceeding  — 
the  whole  review  —  that  most  of  the  men  were  glad  enough 
to  grasp  what  little  comfort  they  could  without  more  ado. 
The  extra  marching  beforehand  had  not  helped  to  cool 
them  off,  mentally  or  physically.  Under  the  single  thin 
roof  that  separated  them  from  the  sun,  the  atmosphere, 
besides  being  hot,  was  excessively  oppressive.  As  soon 
as  they  could  get  rid  of  their  rifles,  belts,  and  coats,  they 
tossed  them  away  in  any  direction.  Those  who  arrived  in 
side  first,  and  consequently  had  a  chance  for  the  shower- 
bath,  peeled  off  every  soggy  garment. 

They  were  in  this  chaotic  state  of  dishabille  when  a  cry 
rose  from  the  first  squad,  *  Man  the  port-holes ! '  Immedi- 


138  RUGGS  —  R.O.T.C. 

ately  one  hundred  and  sixty  male  beings  struggled  for  a 
view  from  the  eastern  windows. 

'It's  the  general  —  the  whole  party!'  exclaimed  one  of 
the  first. 

'They're  coming  in  here/  volunteered  another. 

The  crowd  surged  back  and  the  voice  of  the  acting  first 
sergeant  could  be  heard  in  an  effort  to  prepare  the  company 
for  inspection.  They  hurled  their  belongings  into  place 
with  the  speed  and  accuracy  of  postal  clerks.  Two  nude 
unfortunates  were  without  ceremony  ejected  into  the  cold 
world  on  the  side  of  barracks  farthest  from  the  Russian 
advance.  History  does  not  record  what  ever  became  of 
them.  A  bather  clad  only  in  a  scant  towel  and  a  scanter 
piece  of  soap,  while  making  his  entrance  from  the  shower 
where  he  had  splashed  in  ignorance  of  the  coming  invasion, 
was,  to  his  amazement  and  resentment,  forced  suddenly 
into  the  lavatory,  where,  he  was  given  to  understand,  he 
must  remain.  Ruggs,  most  incompletely  dressed,  coiled 
himself  up  underneath  his  cot  behind  two  lusty  suitcases. 

When  the  general  came  down  the  aisle,  the  candidates 
standing  fully  clad  at  the  foot  of  their  bunks,  at '  attention,' 
gave  the  impression  of  having  waited  for  him  nonchalantly 
in  that  position  ever  since  the  review.  Mattress-covers 
were  smoothed,  bedding  folded*  clothing  hung  neatly,  and 
all  evidence  of  hurry  or  confusion  effaced. 

But  the  Meter  smiled  a  Mona  Lisa  smile  as  the  door 
closed  upon  generals,  colonels,  aides-de-camp,  and  himself. 

'Rest,'  shouted  the  acting  first  sergeant,  and  the  com 
pany  collapsed  into  tumultuous  laughter.  Wet  under 
clothing,  matches,  and  cigarettes,  were  hauled  from  beneath 
mattresses,  equipment  from  behind  pillows,  and  knick- 
knacks  from  yawning  shoe-tops. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  turmoil  one  of  the  doors  reopened 
and  the  Meter  stepped  inside.  Some  one  near  him  mur- 


RUGGS  —  R.O.T.C.  139 

mured  a  half-hearted  'Attention!'  and  all  who  were  within 
earshot  arose  —  all  except  one.  At  that  moment  Ruggs 
found  himself  halfway  up  from  between  the  cots,  his  head 
and  body  upright  and  his  legs  fast  asleep  under  him. 

'Mr.  Ruggs,  I  seem  to  see  more  of  you  than  I  did  a  mo 
ment  ago.' 

If  the  Meter  had  returned  for  a  purpose,  all  idea  of  it 
vanished  now,  for  he  turned  and  disappeared,  leaving 
Ruggs  to  bear  his  chagrin  and  to  blush  down  as  far  as  his 
legs. 

That  night  Squirmy  took  his  text  from  the  book  of  Cur- 
russians,  and  gave  a  splendid  and  inspiriting  talk  on  how 
Moses,  although  he  had  been  found  by  the  King's  daughter 
in  the  bulrushes,  had  nothing  on  Ruggs,  who  was  discov 
ered  by  the  King  himself  among  the  valises.  'And  be  it 
said/  concluded  the  exhorter,  'that  both  foundlings  wore 
the  same  uniform.' 

in 

The  first  of  August  was  close  at  hand.  Rumors  kept 
coming  up  like  the  dawn  'on  the  road  to  Mandalay.'  The 
'makes'  (those  recommended  for  commissions),  it  was  said, 
had  already  had  their  names  sent  to  Washington.  Before 
and  after  drills,  members  of  the  company  were  being  con 
stantly  summoned  into  the  orderly  room  for  interviews, 
the  purport  of  which  was  leaking  out  through  the  camp.  A 
reserve  captain  had  been  given  his  walking  papers. 
Squirmy  was  to  be  a  second  lieutenant;  Naughty,  a  first 
lieutenant;  and  Vance,  a  captain. 

The  Duke  had  just  been  summoned.  As  he  made  his 
way  up  the  aisle  to  the  front  of  barracks,  hushed  whispers 
ran  around  from  circle  to  circle : '  Will  he  get  a  captaincy  or 
just  a  lieutenancy  out  of  it?'  And  many  a  covetous  eye 
followed  his  retreating  figure. 


140  RUGGS  — R.O.T.C. 

At  dinner  he  had  not  returned.  In  the  afternoon  and 
during  the  next  day  his  place  in  the  squad  was  vacant.  It 
began  to  be  rumored  that  he  had  been  sent  away  on  some 
special  detail,  perhaps  to  France. 

In  the  evening  Ruggs,  having  finished  his  supper  early, 
was  surprised  to  find  the  Duke  in  civilian  attire  sitting  on 
the  cot  he  had  occupied,  which  was  now  divested  of  all  its 
former  accompaniments. 

'Good-bye,'  began  the  Duke,  extending  a  cold  hand 
rather  ungraciously.  *  Jus*  turned  in  all  my  stuff.' 

'Leaving?'  queried  Ruggs. 

*  Yep,  got  the  rasp  all  right ! ' 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  which  was  filled  by  the 
Duke's  interest  in  the  lock  of  his  suitcase,  after  which  he 
continued  haltingly,  — 

*  Meter  called  me  in  and  told  me  no  use  to  stay  here  — 
said  my  experience  was  all  right  —  but  because  I'd  had  so 
much,  he  expected  more.     Told  me  any  man  that  got  fussed 
up  and  could  n't  get  out  of  an  easy  hole  without  help  after 
six  years'  trainin'  was  no  good  for  leadin'  men.     Said  he 
could  n't  trust  men's  lives  to  me,  and  so  he  could  n't  give 
me  a  commission.     Gave  me  a  lot  of  guff  like  that,  with  no 
sense  to  it.     He's  a  hell  of  a  man ! ' 

'Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  discharged  —  and  that's 
all?'  Ruggs  was  plainly  astounded. 

'You  bet;  that's  the  end  of  the  little  Duke  of  Squad  15. 
Be  good  to  yourself.  Say  good-bye  to  the  fellows  for  me, 
will  you?' 

Several  men  strolled  back  from  supper.  The  Duke  cast 
ing  a  furtive  glance  in  their  direction  as  much  as  to  say,  '  I 
don't  care  to  meet  any  of  them  any  more,'  added  a  'So 
long,'  and  disappeared,  suitcase  in  hand,  through  the  side 
door. 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  141 

'What  chance  for  me/  thought  Ruggs,  'if  the  Duke  gets 
the  raspberry?' 

That  night  he  carefully  smoothed  out  a  civilian  suit  and 
placed  it  on  a  hanger  at  the  head  of  his  cot.  He  also  wrote 
several  letters  to  business  friends  at  home.  He  did  not  write 
to  Alice. 

Excitement  for  the  next  few  days  was  severe.  Some 
were  not  eating  their  meals,  few  were  sleeping  much,  and 
all  were  stale.  The  physical  training  had  truly  been  in 
tensive,  but  the  mental  strain  had  been  breaking.  Friends 
greeted  each  other  in  a  preoccupied  way,  and  the  nightly 
singing  had  grown  feeble. 

As  for  Ruggs,  he  looked  forward  to  the  acceptance  of  his 
discharge  with  as  much  grace  as  possible.  He  had  striven 
honestly,  and  had  apparently  made  of  himself  only  an  ob 
ject  for  laughter,  but  he  was  far  from  giving  up.  Several 
candidates  had  confided  to  him  their  disappointment,  as 
they  would  have  liked,  they  said,  to  see  him  gain  a  commis 
sion.  Indeed  they  had  felt  all  along  that  he  was  going  to 
make  good. 

Yet  the  day  of  his  reckoning  seemed  never  to  materialize. 
Men  went  into  the  orderly  room,  and  came  out  with  hectic 
smiles  of  relief  or  sickly  efforts  at  cheerfulness,  while  he 
watched  and  waited. 

One  day,  after  the  first  drill,  Vance  was  sitting  on  his 
bunk  talking  finances,  when  a  voice  from  the  other  end  of 
the  barracks  called  out,  — 

'The  following  men  report  in  the  orderly  room  at  once!' 

The  silence  was  crisp.  Then  the  voice  continued  with  a 
list  of  about  ten  names,  toward  the  end  of  which  was 
Ruggs. 

'Good-bye,  Vance/  said  he,  rising.  He  put  on  his  coat 
and  brushed  his  clothing  and  shoes  carefully. 

Vance  eyed  him  narrowly  and  pityingly  during  the  opera- 


142  RUGGS  — R.O.T.C. 

tion,  as  much  as  to  say,  'There's  no  use  taking  any  more 
pains  with  those  clothes;  you'll  never  need  them  again.' 

Ruggs  caught  the  look  and  understood. 

'You  see  I  can't  get  out  of  the  habit,'  he  confessed. 
'It's  not  so  much  the  clothes  as  —  as  —  myself.' 

At  the  orderly  room  door  he  waited  a  small  eternity  be 
fore  his  name  was  called. 

Once  inside  he  found  himself  for  the  first  time  alone  with 
the  Meter.  Under  his  scrutiny  heretofore  Ruggs  had  felt 
himself  to  be  merely  number  one  of  the  rear  rank  needful 
of  correction.  And  yet  the  victim  felt  that  he  could  part 
from  the  captain  with  no  feeling  of  resentment  at  the  blow 
he  was  about  to  receive. 

' Mr.  Ruggs!' 

The  Estimator  of  Destinies  wheeled  in  his  chair  and  cast 
a  look  of  brotherly  frankness  into  Ruggs's  eyes. 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'Mr.  Ruggs,  you've  been  here  almost  three  months.' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

'I  have  n't  time  to  mince  matters  with  you.  You  have 
one  great  failing  which  I'm  going  to  dwell  upon.  You 
attempt  to  do  too  many  things  at  once.  In  the  military 
service  you  are  compelled  to  consider  what  is  best  for  the 
moment.  Nothing  changes  so  fast  or  furiously  as  a  mili 
tary  situation.  Don't  forecast  what  you'll  do  next  so 
much  as  figure  what  you'll  do  now.  Make  your  men  be 
of  the  greatest  use  in  the  team  right  now — understand? 
What  you'd  be  liable  to  do  would  be  a  certain  amount  of 
banking  in  the  trenches.  While  you'd  be  speculating  on 
how  much  interest  your  venture  would  bring  you  to-mor 
row,  a  gas  wave  comes  over  to-day  and  finds  your  men  with 
out  masks.  Be  ready  for  the  thing  at  issue.  You've  got 
to  take  this  matter  in  hand  at  once  and  overcome  it.' 


RUGGS  — R.O.T.C.  143 

Ruggs  acknowledged  to  himself  that  his  difficulties  were 
all  too  plainly  exposed.  He  had  tried  to  compass  the  whole 
of  drill  regulations  in  a  single  night.  He  had  been  so  in 
terested  in  what  he  was  going  to  do  to  the  enemy  after  he 
reached  the  bluff,  that  he  had  forgotten  to  give  the  proper 
signals  to  start  the  company  on  its  mission.  If  only  he 
had  understood  the  correct  method  of  approach  at  the 
beginning ! 

'That,'  went  on  the  Meter,  as  if  in  continuation  of 
Ruggs's  thoughts,  'has  been  your  downfall/ 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  In  answer  to  the  cap 
tain's  'Come  in,'  a  thick  official  document  was  handed 
him. 

'Be  seated,  Mr.  Ruggs.     Pardon  me  while  I  read  this!' 

It  took  some  time  for  the  perusal,  during  which  Ruggs 
saw  light  in  the  shape  of  a  new  plan. 

'Captain,'  he  inquired,  as  the  Meter  looked  up,  'is  there 
any  chance  for  me  to  get  into  another  camp  or  couldn't  you 
recommend  me?' 

'Second  camp!'  cried  the  Meter,  staring  at  Ruggs  as  if 
the  candidate  were  bereft  of  reason.  'Second  camp! 
You'll  get  all  the  second  camp  that's  coming  to  you.  The 
whole  purpose  of  this  camp  is  to  pick  out  the  proper  wood- 
pulp  —  that's  all.  None  of  you  is  capable  of  being  an  offi 
cer  now;  but  the  men  I've  chosen,  I  hope  have  the  makings. 
You  yourself  have  two  assets:  first,  a  knowledge  of  men, 
and  second,  the  power  to  think  under  stress.  In  another 
month  you'll  be  training  rookies  from  the  draft.  What  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  was,  you'd  better  look  out  for  your  fail 
ing  when  you're  the  first  lieutenant,  instead  of  the  captain, 
of  that  company  of  yours.  Do  you  understand?' 

Ruggs  understood  and  managed  to  retire.  Once  out 
side,  he  leaned  against  the  building  to  steady  his  knees, 


144  RUGGS  — R.O.T.C. 

and  pressed  his  hands  into  his  pockets  to  keep  his  fingers 
from  trembling. 

*  Sorry  about  it,  old  chap!'  spoke  up  one  of  those  waiting 
near  the  entry. 

Ruggs  realized  how  the  shock  must  have  affected  his 
features.  The  incident  gave  him  an  idea. 

When  he  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  go  back  to  his 
bunk,  Vance,  in  a  rather  conventional  and  perfunctory 
tone,  inquired  about  the  outcome. 

'Oh,'  the  dissembling  Ruggs  declared,  'the  Meter  said 
he'd  let  me  stay  on  till  the  end  of  camp  for  the  training  I'd 
get,  if  I  wanted  to.' 

It  was  enough  for  Vance,  and  those  standing  about  re 
frained  from  asking  embarrassing  questions.  For  the  next 
four  days  Ruggs  was  treated  as  one  who  has  just  lost  his 
entire  family  in  a  wreck.  On  the  evening  of  the  fifth  day, 
after  supper,  a  reserve  officer  from  headquarters  appeared 
in  barracks  with  a  list,  the  substance  of  which  he  said  could 
be  disclosed  to  the  public.  When  he  had  finished  reading 
the  first  lieutenants  every  eye  glared  at  Ruggs;  and  when 
the  list  was  completed  there  was  a  rush  for  blankets  and  the 
victim.  How  many  times  Ruggs's  feet  hit  the  ceiling,  he 
never  quite  remembered. 

Later,  Squirmy  gave  a  very  helpful  talk  on  Joseph,  who 
was  sold  by  his  brothers  down  into  Egypt  after  they  had 
hidden  him  under  a  bushel.  '  Ah !  gentlemen,'  he  exhorted, 
'this  time  little  Joey  sold  his  brothers.  Little  Joey  Ruggs 
is  going  to  have  a  coat  of  many  colors  and  be  ruler  over 
many ! ' 

And  again  the  fun  turned  on  Ruggs,  but  he  stole  away 
and  wired  Alice. 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

BY   LUCY   HUFFAKER 

THERE  was  a  heavy  odor  in  the  little  house  which  quite 
blighted  the  soft  spring  air  as  it  blew  in  through  the  half- 
open  window.  For  supper  there  had  been  onions  and  sau 
sage,  and  the  fried  potatoes  had  burned.  The  smells  which 
had  risen  from  the  kitchen  stove  had  mingled  with  the  raw, 
soapy  fumes  which  gave  testimony  that  Monday  was  wash 
day  in  the  Black  family.  Now  the  smoking  of  the  kerosene 
lamp  on  the  centre-table  seemed  to  seal  in  hermetical  fash 
ion  the  oppressive  room  against  the  gentle  breeze  of  the 
May  evening. 

The  woman,  bending  over  a  pair  of  trousers  which  she 
was  patching,  stuck  the  needle  in  the  cloth,  pulled  the 
thimble  from  her  fat,  red  finger,  and  rubbed  her  hands  over 
her  eyes. 

*  Bed-time,  Billy,'  she  said  to  the  nine-year-old  boy  who 
was  playing  with  a  picture-puzzle  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table. 

*  Aw,  ma,  let  me  stay  up,  till  pa  and  the  boys  get  home.' 
The  woman  shook  her  head. 

'I'll  get  up  in  plenty  of  time  to  feed  the  chickens,  any 
how.  Honest,  I  will.' 

'You  ought  to  be  glad  to  go  to  bed,'  the  mother  sighed  in 
answer.  'I'd  be.  Seems  to  me  I 'd  be  tickled  to  death  if  I 
could  drop  into  bed  without  my  supper  any  night.' 

'I '11  go  if  you '11  go,  too.  I  just  hate  to  go  to  bed  knowing 
all  the  rest  of  you  are  up.' 

'Me  go  to  bed!  Why  these  trousers  of  yours  are  n't  fin 
ished  yet  and  I've  got  to  mend  Tom's  shirt  and  your 
11 


146  THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

father's  coat,  and  then  there's  the  bread  to  set.  Much 
chance  I  have  to  go  to  bed  for  a  couple  of  hours,  yet !  Now 
you  run  along.  If  you  go  like  a  good  boy,  you  can  have  a 
cooky.' 

She  put  the  thimble  on  her  finger  and  bent  over  her 
mending  again.  She  sewed  steadily  on  until  an  hour  later, 
when  she  heard  the  buggy  drive  into  the  yard  and  one  of 
the  boys  came  running  in  to  ask  her  if  she  knew  where  the 
barn-lantern  was.  It  was  in  the  cellar,  and  there  was  barely 
enough  oil  to  make  a  dim  light  while  the  horse  was  being 
unharnessed.  The  boys  were  sent  to  bed  immediately,  with 
an  injunction  to  be  quiet  so  Billy  would  not  be  awakened. 
She  heard  the  heavy  tread  of  her  husband  in  the  kitchen, 
as  he  hunted  for  the  dipper  to  get  a  drink  of  water.  Then 
he  came  into  the  sitting-room,  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  be 
gan  pulling  off  his  shoes.  He  groaned  as  he  did  it. 

'Say,  Em,'  he  said,  *  guess  who  I  saw  in  town  tonight?' 

'Who?'  was  the  unimaginative  response. 

'You'd  never  guess  in  a  hundred  years.  You'd  never 
guess  what  she  did,  either.  She  sent  you  these.' 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  package  and  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper.  The  woman  looked  at  them  for  a  moment,  but  she 
did  n't  touch  them. 

'Hurry  up,  Em,'  said  the  man.  'They  won't  bite  you.' 

'But  what  —  '  she  faltered. 

'The  best  way  to  find  out  about  'em  is  to  open  'em.' 

She  opened  the  package  first.  It  was  a  cheap  colored 
print  of  St.  Cecilia  at  the  Organ.  It  was  in  a  bright  gilt 
frame.  Then  she  opened  the  note.  She  read  it  through 
once,  with  a  little  frown  puckering  her  forehead.  Then, 
more  slowly,  she  read  it  the  second  time. 

'Minnie  Jackson!'  she  murmured.  '  I  have  n't  seen  her 
for  nearly  ten  years.  I  don't  know  when  I  've  thought  about 
her,  even.  You  read  it,  Jake?' 


THE   WAY  OF  LIFE  147 

'Yes.  She  didn't  seal  it.'  He  waited  a  minute,  then 
said,  'I  could  n't  just  make  out  what  it  was  all  about.  What 
day  is  this?' 

'  It 's  our  birthday  —  Minnie's  and  mine.  We  used  to 
call  ourselves  twins,  but  she's  a  year  older  than  I  am.  I  Ve 
been  so  busy  all  day  I  never  thought  about  it.  What  does 
Minnie  look  like?' 

'Oh,  she  looks  about  the  same,  I  guess,  as  the  last  time 
she  was  home.  She's  getting  fatter,  though.  Guess  the 
climate  out  in  California  must  agree  with  her.' 

'  Is  she  as  fat  as  I  am? ' 

'  Just  about,  I  guess. ' 

'  Did  she  look  as  if  they  were  well  off?  What  kind  of  a 
dress  did  she  have  on?' 

*  I  don't  know.  Good  enough,  I  guess.  I  did  n't  see  any 
thing  wrong  with  it.  While  she  ran  into  the  store  to  get 
this  picture  and  write  this  note  to  you,  old  Jackson  was 
bragging  to  me  about  how  well  Elmer  had  done.  He  said 
Min  had  married  about  as  well  as  any  girl  round  here.' 

'  Did  he  say  anything  about  whether  she  ever  paints 
any?' 

'  Paints?  What  ever  are  you  talking  about,  Em? ' 

She  had  bent  over  her  sewing  again,  and  he  could  not 
see  her  face  as  she  answered,  *  When  Minnie  and  I  were 
little  girls,  I  reckon  we  never  had  any  secrets  from  each 
other,  at  all.  I  know  I  talked  about  things  to  her  I  never 
could  have  told  anybody  else.  She  was  that  way  with  me, 
too.  Well,  she  always  said  she  wanted  to  paint,  and  I 
wanted  to  play.  She  was  always  copying  every  picture 
she  saw.  I  remember  she  did  one  picture  called  A  yard  of 
Roses,  from  a  calendar.  It  was  so  good  you  couldn't  have 
told  the  difference.  Don't  you  remember  the  time  she 
took  the  prize  at  the  art  exhibit  at  the  country  fair,  with  a 
picture  she  had  copied,  called  The  Storm?  One  of  the 


148  THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

judges  said  it  just  made  him  shiver  to  look  at  it,  it  was  so 
real.' 

'Come  to  think  of  it,  I  believe  I  do  recollect  something 
about  Min  having  queer  notions.  I  know  us  boys  used  to 
think  she  was  stuck-up.  What  did  she  mean  about  the 
vow  and  about  this  picture  being  of  you,  by  her?' 

For  a  moment  there  was  only  the  little  click  of  her 
thimble  against  the  needle.  Then  she  said,  '  I  guess  I  can't 
make  it  clear  to  you,  Jake.  Minnie  always  did  have  her 
own  way  of  putting  things.  We  had  lots  of  fancies,  as  we 
used  to  call  them.  But  I  suppose  she  was  thinking  about 
our  old  dreams.  If  they'd  come  true,  she  might  have 
painted  me,  sitting  like  that.' 

'It  don't  look  much  like  you,  even  when  you  was  young,' 
was  the  reply  of  the  man,  not  given  to  '  fancies' ; '  but  what 
is  it  about  the  vow?' 

'I  don't  know,'  said  his  wife  shortly. 

It  was  one  of  the  few  lies  she  had  ever  told  her  husband. 
Just  why,  having  told  him  so  much,  she  could  n't  tell  him 
that  Minnie  Jackson  and  she  had  promised  each  other 
that,  no  matter  what  happened,  nothing  should  keep  them 
from  realizing  their  ambitions,  and  that  each  year  they 
would  give  a  report  to  each  other  on  their  birthday,  she 
could  not  have  said.  But  suddenly  her  throat  contracted 
and  she  could  not  see  the  patch  on  the  coat. 

'How  this  lamp  does  smoke!'  she  said,  as  she  brushed 
her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

'Well,'  yawned  her  husband,  'I  guess  most  folks,  least 
wise  most  girls,  have  silly  notions  when  they're  young. 
Who  'd  ever  think  to  see  you  now,  that  you  ever  had  any 
such  ideas?  You're  a  good  wife  for  a  farmer,  Em.  There 
ain't  a  better  woman  anywhere,  than  you.' 

It  was  one  of  the  few  times  in  all  the  years  of  their  mar 
riage  that  he  had  praised  her.  Jacob  Black  had  never  been 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE  149 

one  to  question  life  or  to  marvel  at  its  wonders.  For  him, 
it  held  no  wonders.  The  spell  of  life  had  caught  him  when 
he  was  young.  He  had  *  fallen  in  love'  with  Emmeline 
Mead  and  he  had  married  her.  She  had  borne  him  eight 
children.  Five  of  them  had  lived.  If  Jacob  Black  had 
thought  about  it  at  all,  which  he  did  not,  he  would  have 
said  that  was  the  way  life  went.  One  was  young.  Then 
one  grew  old.  When  one  was  young,  one  married,  and 
probably  there  were  children. 

The  wing  of  romance  had  brushed  him  so  lightly  in  its 
passing,  that  at  the  time  it  had  brought  to  him  no  yearning 
for  an  unknown  rapture,  no  wonder  at  the  mystery  of  life. 
After  twenty-one  years,  if  he  had  given  it  any  thought  what 
soever,  he  would  have  said  that  their  marriage  *  had  turned 
out  well.'  Em  had  been  a  good  wife;  she  had  risen  at  day 
light  and  worked  until  after  dark.  She  was  n't  foolish 
about  money.  She  never  went  to  town  unless  there  was 
something  to  take  her  there.  She  went  to  church,  of  course, 
and  when  it  was  her  turn,  she  entertained  the  Ladies'  Aid. 
Such  recreations  were  to  be  expected.  Yes,  Em  had  been 
a  good  wife.  But  then,  he  had  been  a  good  husband.  He 
never  drank.  He  was  a  church  member.  He  always  hired 
a  woman  to  do  the  housework,  for  two  weeks,  when  there 
was  a  new  baby.  He  let  Em  have  the  butter  and  chicken 
money. 

The  clock  struck  nine. 

*  I  'm  going  to  bed, '  he  said, '  there 's  lots  to  do  to-morrow. 
Nearly  through  your  mending?' 

'No.  Anyhow,  I  guess  I'll  wait  up  for  John  and  Vic 
toria  to  come  home.' 

*  Better  not,  if  you're  tired.   John  may  get  in  early,  but 
probably  Vic  will  be  mooning  along.' 

'What?'  she  cried.  '  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Jake 
Black?' 


150  THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

'Say,  Em,  are  you  blind?  Can't  you  see  there's  some 
thing  between  her  and  Jim?  Have  n't  you  noticed  that  it 
is  n't  John  he  comes  to  see  now?  Have  n't  you  seen  how 
Vic  spruces  up  nights  when,  he's  coming  over?' 

The  woman  dropped  her  sewing  in  her  lap.  The  needle 
ran  into  her  thumb.  Mechanically,  she  pulled  it  out.  She 
was  so  intent,  looking  at  him,  trying  to  grasp  his  meaning, 
that  she  did  not  notice  the  drops  of  blood  which  fell  on  her 
mending.  When  she  spoke,  it  was  with  difficulty. 

'O  Jake,  it  can't  be.   It  just  can't  be.' 

'Why  can't  it?' 

'Why,  he's  not  good  enough  for  Victoria/ 

'Not  good  enough?  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  Jim? 
I  never  heard  a  word  against  him  and  I ' ve  known  him  ever 
since  he  was  a  little  shaver.  He 's  steady  as  can  be,  and  a 
hard  worker.' 

'  I  know  all  that.  I  was  n't  thinking  about  such  things. 
I  was  thinking  about  —  oh,  about  —  other  things.' 

'Other  things?  Well,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with 
the  other  things?  Forman's  place  is  as  good  as  any  here 
abouts,  and  it 's  clear,  and  only  three  children  to  be  divided 
among.  There's  money  in  the  bank,  too,  I'll  bet.' 

'But  Victoria  is  so  young,  Jake.   Why,  she's  just  a  girl!' 

'She  's  old  as  you  was,  when  we  got  married,  Em.' 

He  went  into  the  kitchen  for  another  drink  of  water. 
When  he  came  through  the  room,  he  bent  over  to  pick  up 
his  shoes. 

'  Say,  Em,'  he  said,  'you  surely  don't  mean  what  you  've 
been  saying,  do  you,  about  Jim  not  being  good  enough  for 
Vic?  'Cause  it  ain't  likely  that  she'll  ever  get  another 
chance  as  good.' 

She  did  not  answer.  The  man  looking  at  her,  the  man 
who  had  lived  with  her  for  more  than  twenty  years,  did  not 
know  that  a  sudden  rage  against  life  was  in  her  heart.  He 


THE   WAY  OF  LIFE  151 

did  not  know  that  the  lost  dreams  of  her  youth  were  crying 
out  in  her  against  the  treachery  of  life.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  bandage  which  the  years  had  mercifully  bound 
across  her  eyes  had  fallen  away,  and  that  she  was  seeing 
the  everlasting  tragedy  of  the  conflict  between  dreams  and 
life.  He  did  not  know  that,  in  that  moment,  she  was  facing 
the  supreme  sorrow  of  motherhood  in  the  knowledge  that 
the  beloved  child  cannot  be  spared  the  disillusions  of  the 
years.  He  only  knew  that  she  was  worried. 

'Don't  you  be  giving  Vic  any  of  your  queer  notions,'  he 
said,  in  a  voice  which  was  almost  harsh. 

Jacob  Black  was  an  easygoing  man.  But  he  had  set  his 
heart  on  seeing  his  daughter  the  wife  of  Jim  Forman.  Did 
not  the  Forman  farm  join  his  on  the  southeast? 

Until  she  heard  him  walking  around  in  their  bedroom 
overhead,  she  sewed  on.  Then  she  laid  down  her  work. 
She  picked  up  the  picture.  It  was  small,  but  she  held  it 
clutched  in  both  hands,  as  though  it  were  heavy.  It  would 
not  have  mattered  to  her  if  she  had  known  that  critics  of 
art  scoffed  at  the  picture.  To  her  it  was  more  than  a  mas 
terpiece;  it  was  a  miracle.  Had  she  not  felt  like  the  pic 
tured  saint,  when  she  had  sat  at  the  organ,  years  ago?  She, 
too,  had  raised  her  eyes  in  just  that  way ;  and  if  actual  roses 
had  not  fallen  on  the  keys,  the  mystical  ones  of  hopes  too 
fragile  for  words,  and  beauties  only  dreamed  of,  had  fallen 
all  about  her.  There  was  a  time  when  she  had  played  the 
little  organ  in  church.  How  her  soul  had  risen  on  the  chords 
which  she  struck  for  the  Doxology,  which  always  came  just 
before  the  benediction!  Even  after  Victoria  was  born,  she 
had  played  the  organ  for  a  time.  Then  the  babies  came 
fast,  and  when  one  has  milking  to  do  and  dishes  to  wash 
and  one's  fingers  are  needle-pricked,  it  is  hard  to  find  the 
keys.  Also,  when  one  works  from  daylight  till  dark,  one 
wants  only  rest.  There  is  a  sleep  too  deep  for  dreams. 


152  THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

It  was  years  since  Emmeline  Black  had  dreamed  except 
in  the  terms  of  her  motherhood.  For  herself,  the  dream  had 
gone.  She  did  not  rebel.  She  accepted.  It  was  the  way  of 
life  with  women  like  her.  She  would  not  have  said  her  life 
was  hard.  Jacob  Black  had  been  a  good  husband  to  her. 
Only  a  fool,  having  married  a  poor  farmer,  could  expect 
that  the  dreams  of  a  romantic  girl  would  ever  come  true. 
Once  she  had  expected  it,  of  course.  That  was  when  Jacob 
Black  had  seemed  as  a  prince  to  Emmeline  Mead.  She 
had  felt  the  wing  of  romance  as  it  brushed  past  her.  But 
that  was  long  ago.  She  did  not  like  the  routine  of  her  life. 
But  neither  did  she  hate  it.  For  herself,  it  had  come  to 
seem  the  natural,  the  expected  thing.  But  for  Victoria — 

Her  dreams  had  not  all  gone  when  Victoria  was  born. 
That  first  year  of  her  marriage,  it  had  seemed  like  playing 
at  being  a  housekeeper  to  do  the  work  for  Jacob  and  her 
self.  She  had  loved  her  garden,  and  often,  just  because  she 
had  loved  to  be  with  him  and  because  she  loved  the  smell 
of  the  earth  and  the  growing  things  which  came  from  it, 
she  had  gone  into  the  fields  with  her  husband.  Then,  when 
the  year  was  almost  gone,  her  baby  was  born.  She  had 
loved  the  other  children  as  they  came,  and  she  had  grieved 
for  the  girls  and  the  boy  who  had  died;  but  Victoria  was 
the  child  of  her  dreams.  The  other  children  had  been 
named  for  aunts  and  uncles  and  grandfathers,  and  so  had 
satisfied  family  pride.  But  that  first  baby  had  been  named 
for  a  queen. 

None  of  the  boys  cared  for  music.  They  '  took  after '  the 
Black  family.  But  Victoria,  so  Emmeline  felt,  belonged  to 
her.  She  had  always  been  able  to  play  by  ear,  and  her 
voice  was  sweet  and  true.  The  butter-and-egg  money  for 
a  long  time  had  gone  for  music  lessons  for  Victoria.  When 
the  girl  was  twelve,  her  mother  had  begun  a  secret  fund. 
Every  week  she  pilfered  a  few  pennies  from  her  own  small 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE  153 

income  and  put  them  away.  Some  time  Victoria  was  to  go 
to  the  city  and  have  lessons  from  the  best  teacher  there. 
For  five  years  she  did  not  purchase  a  thing  for  herself  to 
wear,  except  now  and  then  a  dress  pattern  of  calico.  That 
was  no  real  sacrifice  to  her.  The  hard  thing  was  to  deny 
pretty  clothes  to  Victoria. 

Then  a  year  of  sickness  came.  She  tried  to  forget  the 
little  sum  of  money  hidden  away.  Surely  their  father  could 
pay  the  bills.  If  she  had  spent  the  butter-and-egg  money, 
as  he  had  thought  she  had  done,  he  would  have  had  to  pay 
them  alone.  But  when  the  doctor  said  that  Henry  must  be 
taken  to  the  county  seat  for  an  operation,  there  was  no 
thought  of  questioning  her  duty.  Her  husband  had  been 
surprised  and  relieved  when  she  gave  him  her  little  hoard. 
It  was  another  proof  that  he  had  a  good  wife,  and  one  who 
was  not  foolish  about  money. 

At  last,  her  sewing  was  finished.  She  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  began  to  set  the  bread.  But  her  thoughts  were 
not  on  it.  She  was  thinking  of  Emmeline  Mead  and  her 
dreams,  and  how  they  had  failed  her.  She  had  expected 
Victoria  Black  to  redeem  those  dreams.  And  now  Victoria 
was  to  marry  and  go  the  same  hard  way  toward  drab  mid 
dle-age.  She  heard  some  one  step  on  the  front  porch.  There 
was  a  low  murmur  of  voices  for  a  moment  and  a  little  half- 
stifled  laugh.  Then  the  door  opened. 

*  Mother,  is  that  you?'  came  something  which  sounded 
half -whisper,  half-laugh  from  the  door. 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  bread-pan.  She  smiled. 
But  she  could  not  speak.  It  seemed  as  if  the  fingers  of  some 
world-large  hand  had  fastened  around  her  heart.  To  her 
Victoria  had  always  been  the  most  beautiful,  the  most 
wonderful  being,  on  earth.  But  she  had  never  seen  this 
Victoria  before.  The  girl  was  standing  in  the  door  —  eyes 


154  THE   WAY  OF  LIFE 

shining,  lips  trembling,  her  slim  young  body  swaying  as  if 
to  some  hidden  harmony.  Then  she  leaped  across  the 
kitchen,  and  threw  her  strong  arms  round  her  mother. 

'I  'm  so  glad  you're  up  and  alone!  O  mother,  I  had  to 
see  you  to-night.  I  could  n't  have  gone  to  bed  without 
talking  to  you.  I  was  thinking  it  was  a  blessed  thing  father 
always  sleeps  so  hard,  for  I  could  tip-toe  in  and  get  you  and 
he'd  never  know  the  difference.'  She  stifled  a  little  laugh 
and  went  on,  'Come  on,  outdoors.  It  is  too  lovely  to  stay 
inside.'  She  drew  her  mother,  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
through  the  door.  '  I  guess,  mother,'  she  said,  as  if  suddenly 
shy  when  the  confines  of  the  kitchen  were  left  behind  for 
the  star-lighted  night,  'that  you  know  what  it  is,  don't 
you?' 

For  answer,  Emmeline  Black  sobbed. 
}     'Don't,  mother,  don't.    You  must  n't  mind.    Just  think 
how  near  home  I  '11  be!  Is  n't  that  something  to  be  glad 
about?' 

Her  mother  nodded  her  head  as  she  wiped  her  eyes  on 
her  gingham  apron. 

'  I  wondered  if  you  saw  it  coming? '  the  girlish  voice  went 
on.  'You  never  let  on,  and  the  kids  never  teased  me  any. 
So  I  thought  perhaps  you  told  'em  not  to.  I  have  n't  felt 
like  being  teased  about  Jim,  some  way.  It 's  been  too  won 
derful,  you  know.' 

Not  until  that  moment  did  Emmeline  Black  acknowledge 
the  defeat  of  her  dreams.  Wonderful!  To  love  and  be 
loved  by  Jim  Forman,  of  whom  the  most  that  could  be  said 
was  that  he  was  steady  and  a  hard  worker,  and  that  there 
were  only  two  other  children  to  share  his  father's  farm ! 

'Don't  cry,  mother,'  implored  Victoria,  'though  I  know 
why  you  're  doing  it.  I  feel  like  crying,  too,  only  something 
won't  let  me  cry  to-night.  I  guess  I  'm  just  too  happy 
ever  to  cry  again.' 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE  155 

Still  her  mother  had  not  spoken.  She  had  stopped  crying 
and  stood  twisting  her  apron  with  nervous  fingers. 

*  Mother/  said  Victoria,  suddenly,  'you  like  Jim,  don't 
you?' 

She  said  it  as  if  the  possibility  of  any  one's  not  liking 
Jim  was  preposterous.  But,  nevertheless,  there  was  anxiety 
in  her  voice. 

Her  mother  nodded  her  head. 

'Then  why  are  n't  you  really  glad?  I  thought  you  would 
be,  mother.' 

There  was  no  resisting  that  appeal  in  Victoria's  voice. 
Never  in  her  life  had  she  failed  her  daughter.  Was  she  to 
fail  her  in  this  hour? 

'You  seem  like  a  little  girl  to  me,  Victoria,'  she  found 
voice  to  say,  at  last.  'I  guess  all  mothers  feel  like  this 
when  their  daughters  tell  them  they  are  going  to  leave 
them.  I  reckon  I  never  understood  until  just  now,  why 
my  mother  acted  just  like  she  did  when  I  told  her  your 
father  and  I  were  going  to  be  married.' 

Victoria  laughed  joyously.  '  I  'm  not  a  little  girl.  I  'm  a 
woman.  And,  mother,  Jim  is  so  good.  He  wants  to  be 
married  right  away.  He  says  he  can't  bear  to  think  of 
waiting.  But  he  said  I  was  to  tell  you  that  if  you  could  n't 
spare  me  for  a  while,  it  would  be  all  right.' 

There  was  pride  in  her  lover's  generosity.  But  deeper 
than  that  was  the  woman's  pride  in  the  knowledge  that  he 
could  not '  bear  to  think  of  waiting.' 

'It  is  n't  that  I  can't  spare  you,  dear,'  said  her  mother. 
'  But,  O  Victoria,  I  'd  wanted  to  have  you  go  off  and  study 
to  be  a  fine  musician.  I've  dreamed  of  it  ever  since  you 
were  born.' 

'But  I  could  n't  go  even  if  it  was  n't  for  Jim.  Where 
would  we  ever  get  the  money?  Anyway,  mother,  Jim  is 
going  to  buy  me  a  piano.  What  do  you  think  of  that? ' 


156  THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

'A  piano?' 

'Yes.  He  has  been  saving  money  for  it  for  years.  He 
says  I  play  too  well  for  an  old-fashioned  organ.  And  on 
our  wedding  trip  we  're  going  to  Chicago,  and  we  're  going 
to  pick  it  out  there,  and  we  're  going  to  a  concert  and  to  a 
theatre  and  to  some  show  that  has  music  in  it.' 

In  spite  of  herself,  Emmeline  Black  was  dazzled.  In  all 
her  life  she  never  had  gone  to  the  city  except  in  her  dreams. 
Until  that  far-off  day  of  magic  when  Victoria  should  be  a 
fine  musician,  she  had  never  hoped  to  replace  the  squeaky 
little  organ  with  a  piano. 

'He  says  he  has  planned  it  ever  since  he  loved  me,  and 
that  has  been  nearly  always.  He  says  he  can  just  see  me 
sitting  at  the  piano  playing  to  him  nights  when  he  comes  in 
from  work.  I  guess,  mother,  we  all  have  to  have  our 
dreams.  And  now  Jim's  and  mine  are  coming  true.' 

'Have  you  always  dreamed  things,  too?'  asked  her 
mother. 

It  did  not  seem  strange  to  her  that  she  and  this  beloved 
child  of  hers  had  never  talked  about  the  things  which  were 
in  their  hearts  until  this  night.  Mothers  and  daughters 
were  like  that.  But  there  was  a  secret  jealousy  in  knowing 
that  they  would  not  have  found  the  way  to  those  hidden 
things  if  it  had  not  been  for  Jim  Forman.  It  was  he,  and 
not  she,  who  had  unlocked  the  secrets  of  Victoria's  heart. 

'Why,  yes,  of  course,  mother.  Don't  you  remember  how 
you  used  to  ask  me  what  was  the  matter  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  would  go  off  sometimes  by  myself  and  sit  and  look 
across  the  fields?  I  did  n't  know  how  to  tell  you.  I  did  n't 
know  just  what  it  was.  And  don 't  you  remember  asking 
me  sometimes  if  I  was  sick  or  if  somebody  had  hurt  my 
feelings,  because  you'd  see  tears  in  my  eyes?  I'd  tell  you 
no.  But  some  way  I  could  n't  tell  you  it  was  because  the 
red  of  the  sunset  or  the  apple  trees  in  blossom  or  the  cres- 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE  157 

cent  moon,  or  whatever  it  happened  to  be,  made  me  feel 
so  queer  inside.'  She  laughed,  but  there  was  a  hint  of  a  sob 
in  her  voice.  *  Is  n't  it  strange,  mother,  that  we  don't  seem 
able  to  tell  folks  any  of  these  things?  I  could  n't  tell  you 
even  now,  except  that  I  always  had  an  idea  you  'd  felt  just 
the  same  way,  yourself.  I  seemed  to  know  I  got  the 
dreams  from  you/ 

'Hush,'  warned  her  mother.  *  There  's  some  one  coming. 
Oh,  John,  is  that  you?' 

*  Yes.  Why  don't  you  two  go  to  bed? '  answered  the  boy. 
'It's  getting  late,  and  there's  lot  to  do  to-morrow.' 

'It  is  bed-time,  I  guess,'  said  his  mother.  'Run  along, 
Victoria.  And  sweet  dreams.' 

She  cautioned  John  and  his  sister  not  to  wake  the  others, 
as  they  prepared  for  bed.  She  walked  into  the  house.  She 
tried  the  clock.  Yes,  Jake  had  wound  it.  She  locked  the 
door.  She  folded  her  mending  neatly  and  put  it  away.  She 
placed  Minnie  Jackson's  letter  in  the  drawer  of  the  table. 
She  took  the  picture  of  St.  Cecilia  and  balanced  it  on  the 
little  shelf  above  the  organ,  where  had  been  a  china  vase 
with  dried  grasses  in  it.  She  stood  off  and  looked  at  it  crit 
ically.  She  decided  that  was  the  very  place  for  the  picture. 
She  looked  around  the  room  for  a  place  to  put  the  vase,  and 
made  room  for  it  on  top  of  the  little  pine  book-case.  She 
walked  to  the  table  and  hunted  in  the  drawer  until  she 
found  pen  and  ink  and  a  piece  of  ruled  paper. 

'Dear  Minnie,'  she  wrote  in  her  cramped,  old-fashioned 
hand,  'I  was  so  glad  to  get  your  note  and  the  picture.  I 
want  to  thank  you  for  it.  Can't  you  come  out  right  away 
and  spend  the  day  with  me?  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you, 
and  I  want  that  you  should  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  too. 
You  see  I  'm  keeping  the  vow,  just  as  you  did,  although  we 
had  forgotten  it  for  so  long.  Is  n't  it  strange,  Minnie,  about 
things?  Here  I'd  thought  for  years  that  my  dreams  were 


158  THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

gone.  And  now  it  seems  Victoria  had  them,  all  the  time. 
It's  a  secret  yet,  but  I  want  to  tell  you,  and  I  know  she 
won't  mind,  that  Victoria  is  going  to  be  married.  You 
know  Jim  Forman,  don't  you?  Anyway,  you  knew  Cy 
Forman  and  Milly  Davis,  and  he's  their  eldest  child.  I 
hope  Victoria  can  keep  the  dreams  for  herself  better  than  I 
did.  Perhaps  she  can.  She's  going  to  have  things  easier 
than  I  have,  I  hope.  But  if  she  can't,  surely  she  can  keep 
them  until  she  has  a  child  to  give  them  to,  just  as  I  gave 
mine  to  her.  I  never  thought  of  it  before,  but  it  seems  to 
me  to-night  that  perhaps  that  is  the  surest  way  there  is  of 
having  our  dreams  last.  I  don't  see  how  I  'm  going  to  stand 
it  to  see  my  girl  growing  fat  and  tired  and  old  from  hard 
work,  like  I've  done.  But  there  is  another  side  to  it. 
You're  a  mother,  too,  Minnie,  so  I  guess  I  don't  need  to 
tell  you  that  all  the  music  and  all  the  pictures  in  the  world 
would  n't  make  up  to  me,  now,  for  my  children.  We  did  n't 
know  that  when  we  had  our  "fancies,"  did  we?  But  we 
know  it  now.  Come  out  soon,  Minnie.  We  '11  have  so  much 
to  talk  about,  and  I  want  that  you  and  Victoria  should 
know  each  other.' 

She  folded  the  paper  and  slipped  it  into  an  envelope 
which  she  addressed  and  stamped.  Then  she  blew  out  the 
light. 


A   YEAR   IN  A   COAL-MINE 

BY    JOSEPH    HUSBAND 

TEN  days  after  my  graduation  from  Harvard  I  took  my 
place  as  an  unskilled  workman  in  one  of  the  largest  of  the 
great  soft-coal  mines  that  lie  in  the  Middle  West.  It  was 
with  no  thought  of  writing  my  experiences  that  I  chose  my 
occupation,  but  with  the  intention  of  learning  by  actual 
work  the  'operating  end'  of  the  great  industry,  in  the  hope 
that  such  practical  knowledge  as  I  should  acquire  would  fit 
me  to  follow  the  business  successfully.  That  this  mine  was 
operated  in  direct  opposition  to  the  local  organization  of 
union  labor,  and  had  won  considerable  notoriety  by  suc 
cessfully  mining  coal  in  spite  of  the  most  active  hostility, 
gave  an  added  interest  to  the  work.  The  physical  condi 
tions  of  the  mine  were  the  most  perfect  that  modern  engi 
neering  has  devised:  the  *  workings'  were  entirely  electri 
fied;  the  latest  inventions  in  coal- mining  machinery  were 
everywhere  employed,  and  every  precaution  for  the  safety 
of  the  men  was  followed  beyond  the  letter  of  the  law. 


It  was  half-past  six  on  a  July  morning  when  the  day- 
shift  began  streaming  out  of  the  wash-house:  some  four 
hundred  men,  —  white,  black,  and  of  perhaps  twenty-eight 
nationalities,  —  dressed  in  their  tattered,  black,  and  greasy 
mine-clothes.  The  long  stream  wound  out  of  the  wash- 
house  door,  past  the  power-house  where  the  two  big  gener 
ators  that  feed  the  arteries  of  the  great  mine  all  day  long 
with  its  motive  power  were  screaming  in  a  high,  shrill 


160  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

rhythm  of  sound,  —  past  the  tall  skeleton  structure  of  the 
tipple-tower,  from  which  the  light  morning  breeze  blew 
black  clouds  of  coal-dust  as  it  eddied  around  the  skeleton 
of  structural  iron-work,  —  to  a  small  house  at  the  mine- 
mouth,  sheathed  in  corrugated  iron,  where  the  broken  line 
formed  a  column,  and  the  men,  one  by  one,  passed  through 
a  gate  by  a  small  window  and  gave  their  numbers  to  a  red- 
faced  man,  who  checked  down  in  a  great  book  the  men  who 
were  entering  the  mine. 

From  the  window  we  passed  along  to  a  little  inclosure 
directly  above  the  mouth  of  the  main  hoisting-shaft.  Sheer 
above  it  the  black  tower  of  the  tipple  pointed  up  into  the 
hot,  blue  morning  sky;  and  the  dull,  dry  heat  of  the  flat 
Illinois  country  seemed  to  sink  down  around  it.  But  from 
the  square,  black  mouth  of  the  shaft  a  strong,  steady  blast 
of  cool  air  struck  the  faces  of  the  men  who  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  little  column  waiting  for  the  next  hoist.  On  the 
one  side  of  the  shaft-mouth,  long  lines  of  empty  railroad 
cars  stretched  out  beyond  into  the  flat  country,  each  wait 
ing  its  turn  to  be  filled  some  time  during  the  day  with  coal 
that  would  come  pouring  down  over  the  great  screens  in 
the  tipple;  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  shaft-mouth,  under 
the  seamed  roof  of  the  building  where  the  checker  wrote 
down  the  numbers  of  the  day-shift,  sat  the  hoisting  engi 
neer  —  a  scrawny,  hard-faced  man  with  a  mine-cap  pushed 
back  from  his  forehead. 

Beside  him  was  the  great  drum  on  which  the  long  steel 
cables  that  lifted  and  lowered  the  hoisting-cage  were  rap 
idly  unwinding,  and  in  his  hand  he  held  a  lever  by  which 
he  controlled  the  ascent  or  descent  of  the  'cage/  The  first 
cage  had  been  lowered,  and  as  I  watched  him  and  the  dial 
before  him,  I  saw  his  hand  follow  his  eye,  and  as  the  white 
arrow  passed  the  300-foot  level,  the  hand  drew  back  a  notch 
and  the  long,  lithe  wire  began  to  uncoil  more  slowly.  Three 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COALMINE  161 

hundred  and  fifty  feet,  —  and  another  notch,  —  and  as 
the  arrow  reached  near  the  400-foot  mark,  his  foot  came 
down  hard  on  the  .brake,  and  a  minute  later  a  bell  at  his 
elbow  sounded  the  signal  of  the  safe  arrival  of  the  hoist. 
A  minute,  and  another  signal;  and  then,  releasing  his  foot 
from  the  brake,  and  pulling  another  lever  toward  him,  the 
drums,  reversed,  began  to  rewind;  and  as  the  arrow  flew 
backwards,  I  realized  that  the  cage  was  nearing  the  top  — 
the  cage  on  which  a  minute  later  I  was  to  make  my  descent 
as  a  *  loader'  into  one  of  the  largest,  and  perhaps  most 
famous,  of  the  vast  soft-coal  mines  that  lie  in  our  Middle 
States. 

As  the  thin  cables  streamed  upward  and  over  the  sheave- 
wheels  above  the  shaft  and  down  to  the  reeling-drums,  I 
looked  at  the  men  about  me  and  felt  a  sudden  mortifica 
tion  at  the  clean  blue  of  my  overalls,  and  the  bright  polish 
on  my  pick  and  shovel.  A  roar  at  the  shaft-mouth,  the 
grind  of  the  drums  as  the  brakes  shot  in,  and  the  cage  lifted 
itself  suddenly  from  the  shaft. 

The  cage,  or  elevator,  in  which  the  men  were  lowered 
into  the  mine,  was  a  great  steel  box  divided  into  four  super 
imposed  compartments,  each  holding  ten  men ;  and  I  stood, 
with  nine  others,  crowded  on  the  first  or  lowest  deck.  As 
the  last  man  pushed  into  his  place  and  we  stood  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  the  hoisting  engineer  slowly  slipped  his  lever 
again  toward  him,  and  as  slowly  the  cage  sank.  Then,  in 
an  instant,  the  white-blue  of  the  sky  was  gone,  except  for 
a  thin  crack  below  the  deck  above  us,  through  which  a 
sheet  of  white  light  sliced  in  and  hung  heavily  in  the  dusty 
air  of  our  compartment.  The  high  song  of  the  generators 
in  the  power-house,  the  choking  puffs  of  the  switch-engine 
in  the  yards,  and  the  noise  of  men  and  work  which  I  had 
not  noticed  before,  I  now  suddenly  missed  in  the  absence 
of  sound. 
12 


162  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  deck  above,  and 
again  we  sank,  and  this  time  all  was  darkness,  while  we 
paused  for  the  third  deck  to  fill.  Once  more  —  and  again 
for  the  fourth.  Then,  as  the  cage  started  and  the  roar  of 
the  shoes  on  the  guide-rails  struck  my  ears,  I  looked  at  the 
men  about  me.  They  were  talking  in  a  whirr  of  foreign 
words;  and  in  the  greasy  yellow  light  of  their  pit-lamps, 
which  hung  like  miniature  coffee-pots  in  the  brims  of  their 
caps,  the  strong,  hard  lines  of  their  faces  deepened.  The 
working  day  was  begun. 

As  the  cage  shot  down,  the  wall  of  the  shaft  seemed  to 
slip  up,  and  from  its  wet,  slimy  surface  an  occasional  spat 
ter  of  mud  shot  in  on  the  faces  of  the  miners.  Strong  smells 
of  garlic,  of  sweat,  and  of  burning  oil  filled  the  compart 
ment,  and  the  air,  which  sucked  up  through  the  cracks  be 
neath  our  feet  as  though  under  the  force  of  a  piston,  fanned 
and  pulled  the  yellow  flames  in  the  men's  caps  into  smoking 
streaks.  Then  I  felt  the  speed  of  the  'hoist'  diminish.  A 
pressure  came  in  my  ears  and  I  swallowed  hard;  and  a 
second  later,  a  soft  yet  abrupt  pause  in  our  descent  brought 
me  down  on  my  heels.  The  black  wall  of  the  shaft  before 
me  suddenly  gave  way,  and  we  came  to  a  stop  on  the 
bottom  of  the  mine. 

It  was  cool,  and  after  the  heat  of  a  July  morning,  the 
damp  freshness  of  the  air  chilled  me.  With  dinner-pails 
banging  against  our  knees,  we  pushed  out  of  the  hoist;  and 
as  the  men  crowded  past,  I  stood  with  my  back  against  a 
great  timber  and  looked  around  me.  Behind,  the  hoist  had 
already  sunk  into  the  *  sump '  or  pit,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
shaft,  in  order  that  the  men  on  the  second  compartment 
might  pass  out  into  the  mine;  and  a  second  later  they 
swarmed  by  me  —  and  still  I  stood,  half -dazed  by  the  roar 
of  unknown  sounds,  my  eyes  blanketed  by  the  absence  of 
light,  and  my  whole  mind  smothered  and  crushed. 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  163 

I  was  standing  just  off  the  main  entry  or  tunnel  of  the 
mine,  which  began  on  my  left  hand  out  of  blackness  and 
passed  again,  on  my  right,  into  a  seeming  wall  of  darkness. 
The  low,  black  roof,  closely  beamed  with  great  timbers, 
was  held  by  long  lines  of  great  whitewashed  tree-trunks. 
A  few  electric  lights  shone  dimly  through  their  dust-coated 
globes,  and  the  yellow  flames  from  the  men's  pit-lamps, 
which  had  flared  so  bright  in  the  compartment  of  the 
hoisting-cage,  seemed  now  but  thin  tongues  of  flame  that 
marked  rather  than  disclosed  the  men. 

Out  of  the  blackness  on  the  left,  two  tracks  passed  over 
a  great  pit  and  stretched  on  into  the  blackness  on  the  right, 
as  though  into  the  wall  of  the  coal  itself.  Then,  far  off,  a 
red  signal-light  winked  out  and  made  distance  visible;  and 
beyond  it  came  the  sound  of  grinding  wheels;  there  was 
the  gleam  of  a  headlight  on  the  steel  rails.  The  ray  grew 
larger  and  two  yellow  sparks  above  it  flamed  out  into  pit- 
lights.  A  train  was  coming  out  of  the  entry  and  I  waited 
until  it  should  pass.  With  a  grind  of  brakes  it  suddenly 
loomed  out  of  the  blackness  and  into  the  dull  haze  of  light 
at  the  shaft-bottom.  With  a  roar  it  passed  by.  The  loco 
motive,  a  great  iron  box,  was  built  like  a  battering-ram, 
the  headlight  set  in  its  armor-plated  bow,  and  behind,  on 
two  low  seats,  as  in  a  racing  automobile,  sat  the  motorman 
and  the  'trip-rider'  or  helper,  the  motorman  with  one  hand 
on  the  great  iron  brake-wheel,  the  other  on  his  controller, 
and  the  trip-rider  swinging  on  his  low  seat,  half  on  the 
motor  and  half  over  the  coupling  of  the  rocking  car  behind, 
clinging  to  the  pole  of  the  trolley.  Their  faces  were  black 
with  the  coal-dust,  —  black  as  the  motor  and  their  cloth 
ing,  —  and  from  their  pit-lamps  the  flames  bent  back  in 
the  wind  and  streamed  out  straight  along  their  cap-tops. 

Low  above  the  head  of  the  trip-rider,  the  wheel  on  the 
trolley  streaked  out  sudden  bursts  of  greenish-white  sparks 


164  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAI^MINE 

along  the  wire;  and  as  the  train  passed  by,  the  roar  of  the 
locomotive  gave  place  to  the  clattering  of  the  couplings  of 
the  long  string  of  stocky  cars,  each  heaped  high  with  its 
black  load  of  coal.  Some  one  seized  me  by  the  elbow. 

*  What's  yer  number?'  he  asked. 

'419.' 

'Loader?  New  man?' 

I  nodded. 

'Then  come  along  with  me.' 

He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  who  walked  with  his  head 
thrown  forward  and  his  chin  against  his  chest  as  if  in  con 
stant  fear  of  striking  the  low  beams  overhead.  I  followed 
him,  stumbling  rather  clumsily  over  the  broken  coal  beside 
the  track.  The  train  had  come  to  a  stop  over  the  pit  be 
tween  the  rails,  and  men  with  iron  bars  were  beating  loose 
the  frogs  and  releasing  the  hopper-bottoms  of  the  cars. 
Heavy  clouds  of  fine  coal-dust  poured  up  from  the  cars  as 
the  coal  roared  down  into  the  bins;  and  the  clanking  of 
metal,  the  crash  of  falling  coal,  and  the  unintelligible  shout 
ing  of  the  foreigners,  filled  the  entry  with  a  dull  tumult  of 
sounds. 

Dodging  the  low  trolley-wire  which  hung  about  five  feet 
above  the  rails,  we  crawled  across  the  coupling  between 
two  of  the  cars  to  the  other  side  of  the  entry,  and  walked 
to  the  left,  past  the  locomotive  where  the  motorman  was 
still  sitting  in  his  low  seat,  waiting  to  pull  out  his  train  of 
empty  cars  into  the  sudden  darkness  of  the  tunnel  beyond. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  learned  that  mines  are  echoless, 
and  that  sound  —  like  light  —  is  absorbed  by  the  blotter- 
like  walls  of  the  tunnels. 

We  walked  down  the  entry  between  the  rails,  and  after 
a  hundred  yards  turned  with  the  switch  in  the  track  sharply 
to  the  right,  and  again  on.  Sense  of  direction  or  angles  was 
lost,  and,  like  the  faces  in  a  foreign  race  of  people,  where 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAI^MINE  165 

one  can  see  little  or  no  individuality,  so  here,  each  corner 
seemed  the  same,  and  in  a  hundred  yards  I  was  utterly  lost. 
Above  was  the  smooth,  black  roof;  below,  the  ties  and  the 
rails;  and  on  either  side,  behind  the  two  long  rows  of  props, 
the  face  of  the  coal-seam,  which  glittered  and  sparkled  in 
the  light  from  our  pit-lamps  like  a  dull  diamond. 

We  talked  a  little.  My  companion  asked  me  where  I  had 
worked  before,  how  much  I  knew  of  mines,  and  a  few  other 
questions;  and  still  we  walked  on,  dodging  the  low  wire 
that  comes  level  with  one's  ear,  and  stumbling  over  the 
layer  of  broken  coal  that  lay  strewn  here  and  there  be 
tween  the  rails. 

The  silence  was  like  the  darkness  —  a  total  absence  of 
sound,  rather  than  stillness,  as  my  first  impression  of  the 
mine  had  been  that  of  an  absence  of  light,  rather  than  of 
darkness.  The  smoking  lights  in  our  caps  seemed  to  press 
out  through  the  blackness  twenty  feet  around  us, 'where 
the  light  disappeared  and  was  gone.  And  always  in  front 
of  us,  out  of  the  black  darkness,  the  two  long  lines  of  props 
on  either  side  of  the  track  stepped  one  by  one  into  the  yel 
low  haze  of  light  and  sank  again  into  darkness  behind  us 
as  we  walked. 

The  air  was  cool  and  damp,  but  as  we  turned  the  last 
corner,  the  dampness  seemed  suddenly  gone  from  it.  It 
was  warmer  and  closer.  Here  the  track  swerved  up  from 
one  of  the  main  tunnels  into  a  *  room ' ;  and  at  the  end,  or 
*  heading'  of  this  room,  which  we  reached  a  few  minutes 
later,  empty  and  waiting  for  its  first  load,  stood  one  of  the 
square  cars  which  I  had  seen  before  at  the  mine-bottom 
and  which  we  passed  several  times  on  sidings  by  the  track. 
The  car  was  pushed  up  to  the  end  of  the  track  and  its 
wheels  'spragged'  by  two  blocks  of  coal.  Here  the  tunnel 
suddenly  ended,  and  from  the  blank  back  'face*  a  rough, 


166  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

broken  pile  of  coal  streamed  down  on  both  sides  of  the  car 
and  reared  up  before  it  against  the  roof. 

'Just  shovel  'er  full,  then  wait  till  the  motor  takes  her 
out  and  sends  in  an  empty,  and  fill  that  one.  I  '11  look  in 
on  you  once  in  a  while  and  see  how  you're  getting  along/ 

Then  he  turned  and  walked  down  the  track  and  left  me 
in  the  dim  light  of  my  single  pit-lamp. 

ii 

In  the  first  days  of  coal-mining  —  as  in  many  mines  to 
day  where  modern  methods  have  not  superseded  those  of 
old-time  miners  —  a  man  did  all  the  work.  With  his  hand- 
drill  he  bored  into  the  face  of  the  coal  at  the  head  of  his 
room,  or  entry,  and  from  his  keg  of  powder  he  made  long 
cartridges  and  inserted  them  into  his  drill-holes.  Then, 
when  the  coal  was  blasted  down,  and  he  had  broken  it  with 
a  pick,  he  loaded  it  with  his  shovel  into  a  car;  and  trim 
ming  square  the  face  of  the  tunnel,  propping  when  neces 
sary,  he  pushed  on  and  on  until  he  broke  through  and 
joined  the  next  tunnel  or  completed  the  required  length  of 
that  single  entry. 

But  to-day  these  conditions  are,  in  most  instances, 
changed.  The  work  begins  with  the  *  machine-men/  who 
operate  the  'chain-machines.'  In  order  that  the  blast  may 
dislodge  by  gravity  an  even  block  of  coal,  of  the  dimensions 
of  the  cross-section  of  the  tunnel,  these  men  cut  with  their 
machines  a  'sump-cut,'  or,  in  other  words,  carve  out  an 
opening  level  with  the  floor,  about  six  inches  high  and  six 
feet  deep,  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel.  The  machines  —  which 
are  propelled  by  electricity  —  consist  of  a  motor  and  a 
large  oblong  disk,  about  which  travels  an  endless  chain  con 
taining  sharp  steel  'bits'  or  picks.  The  machine  is  braced, 
the  current  turned  on,  and  the  disk  advanced  against  the 
coal,  automatically  advancing  as  the  bits  grind  out  the 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  167 

coal.  As  soon  as  the  machine  has  entered  to  the  full  six 
feet,  the  disk  is  withdrawn  and  the  cut  continued  until  it 
extends  across  the  entire  face. 

In  the  evening  the  drillers,  with  their  powerful  air-drills, 
bore  a  series  of  five  or  six  six-foot  'shot-holes,'  four  along 
the  roof,  and  two  on  each  side  for  the  'rib-shots.'  Then  a 
third  crew  of  men,  the  'shot-firers,'  fill  the  deep  drill-hole 
with  long  cartridges  of  coarse  black  powder,  and  blast  down 
the  coal,  which  falls  broken  and  crumbled  into  the  cut  pre 
pared  by  the  machine-men.  In  the  morning,  when  the  ever- 
moving  current  of  air,  forced  into  the  mine  by  the  fan  at 
the  mouth  of  the  air-shaft,  has  cleared  away  the  dust  and 
smoke,  the  loaders  enter  the  mine,  and  all  day  long  load 
into  the  ever-ready  cars  the  coal  that  has  been  blasted 
down,  until  the  'place'  is  cleaned  up,  and  their  work  is 
done.  Then  they  move  on  to  another  'place';  and  so  the 
work  goes  on  in  a  perfect  system  of  rotation. 

My  companion  had  told  me,  as  we  walked  from  the  mine- 
bottom,  that  his  name  was  Billy  Wild.  'Call  me  Billy,'  he 
said;  and  as  we  walked  down  the  track  to  the  main  entry, 
he  turned  and  called  over  his  shoulder,  'You're  in  Room 
27,  third  west-south.  That's  where  you  are,  if  you  want 
to  know.' 

The  light  in  my  lamp  was  burning  low,  and  I  sat  down 
on  a  pile  of  coal  beside  the  track,  lifted  it  out  of  the  socket 
in  my  cap,  and  pried  up  the  wick  with  a  nail  which  one  of 
the  men  'on  top'  had  given  me  for  the  purpose.  Then  I 
stripped  to  the  waist  and  began  to  load,  shovelful  after 
shovelful,  each  lifted  four  feet  and  turned  over  into  the 
waiting  car,  for  two  long  hours,  sometimes  stopping  to 
break  with  my  pick  great  blocks  of  coal  that  were  too  large 
to  lift,  even  with  my  hands.  Then,  finally,  lumps  of  coal 
began  to  show  above  the  edge  of  the  car,  and  I  'trimmed' 
it,  lifting  some  of  the  larger  pieces  to  my  knees,  then  against 


168  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAI^MINE 

my  chest,  and  then  throwing  them  up  on  the  top  of  the 
pile. 

The  noise  of  the  shovel  scraping  against  the  floor  and 
the  clatter  of  the  coal  as  the  great  pile  slid  down  and  filled 
each  hole  that  I  dug  out  at  its  foot,  filled  the  tunnel  with 
friendly  sounds;  but  when  the  car  was  loaded  and  I  slipped 
on  my  coat  and  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  fine  coal-dust  beside 
the  track  to  wait,  silence  suddenly  submerged  me.  I  could 
hear  my  heart  beat,  and  curious  noises  sang  in  my  ears. 
Up  in  the  roof,  under  the  stratum  of  slate  above  the  coal, 
came  a  trickling  sound  like  running  water  —  the  sound  of 
gas  seeping  out  through  the  crevices  in  the  coal.  I  was  wet 
with  sweat,  and  my  face,  hands,  and  body  were  black  where 
the  great  cloud  of  dust  which  my  shovel  had  created  had 
smeared  my  wet  skin.  Dull  pains  in  the  small  of  my  back 
caught  me  when  I  moved,  and  every  muscle  in  my  body 
ached.  (In  a  week  my  hands  had  blistered,  the  blisters  had 
broken,  and  over  the  cracked  flesh  ingrained  with  coal-dust 
healing  callouses  had  begun  to  form.) 

Then,  far  off  in  the  distance,  came  a  muffled,  grinding 
sound  that  grew  louder  and  louder  —  a  sound  that  almost 
terrified.  A  dull,  yellow  light,  far  down  in  the  mouth  of 
the  room,  outlined  the  square  of  the  tunnel;  and  then, 
around  the  corner  came  the  headlight  of  the  electric  *  gath 
ering*  or  switching  locomotive,  and  above  it,  the  bobbing 
yellow  flames  of  two  pit-lamps.  With  a  grinding  roar,  the 
motor  struck  the  upgrade  and  came  looming  up  the  tun 
nel,  filling  it  with  its  bulk.  There  was  sound,  and  the  silence 
was  gone.  The  coupling  of  the  locomotive  locked  with  the 
coupling  of  the  waiting  car,  and  they  rumbled  away. 

Once  more  the  locomotive  came,  this  time  with  an 
'empty*  to  be  filled.  In  the  old  days,  mules  were  used  to 
*  gather*  the  loaded  cars,  and,  in  fact,  are  still  employed  in 
most  mines  to-day;  but  electricity  permits  bigger  loads,  and 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  169 

the  dozen  or  two  of  mules  that  lived  in  the  mine  were  used 
only  where  it  was  impossible  to  run  the  locomotives. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  I  was  given  a  companion,  or 
*  buddy.'  Our  lockers  in  the  wash-house  were  near  together, 
and  we  usually  went  down  on  the  same  hoist;  but  some 
mornings  I  would  find  Jim  ahead  of  me,  waiting  by  the 
scale-house.  Jim  rarely  took  the  full  benefit  of  the  wash- 
house  privileges,  and  morning  found  him  with  the  dirt  and 
grime  of  the  work  of  the  previous  day  still  on  his  face.  He 
was  a  Greek,  short,  with  a  thin,  black  moustache,  which 
drooped  down  into  two  'rat-tail*  points.  Around  each  eye 
a  heavy  black  line  of  coal-dust  was  penciled,  as  though  by 
an  actor's  crayon.  His  torn  black  working  clothes,  greasy 
with  oil  dripped  from  his  pit-lamp,  hung  on  him  like  rags 
on  a  scarecrow. 

From  the  scale-house  we  walked  up  the  now  familiar 
entries  in  '  third  west-south '  to  the  room  where  we  worked, 
and  dug  out  our  picks  and  shovels  from  under  a  pile  of  coal 
where  we  had  hidden  them  the  night  before.  Then,  in  the 
still,  close  air  of  the  silent  room,  we  began  each  morning  to 
fill  the  first  car. 

Down  in  the  scale-house,  where  the  cars  were  hauled  over 
the  scales  set  in  the  track,  before  being  dumped  into  the 
bins  between  the  rails,  Old  Man  Davis  took  the  weights; 
and  when  the  loader's  number  —  a  small  brass  tag  with  his 
number  stamped  upon  it  —  was  given  to  him,  he  marked 
down  opposite  it  the  pounds  of  coal  to  the  loader's 
credit;  and  so  each  day  on  the  great  sheet,  smooched  with 
his  dusty  hands,  stood  a  record  of  each  man's  strength 
measured  in  tons  of  coal. 

When  Jim  and  I  worked  together,  we  took  turns  hanging 
our  numbers  inside  the  car;  and  each  night  we  remembered 
to  whose  credit  the  last  car  had  been ;  and  the  next  morn 
ing,  if  my  number  had  been  hung  in  the  last  car  of  the  day 


170  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

before,  Jim  would  pull  one  of  his  tags  out  of  his  pocket  and 
hang  it  on  the  hook  just  inside  the  edge  of  the  empty  car. 
Then,  he  on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other,  we  worked,  shovel 
ful  after  shovelful,  until  the  coal  showed  above  the  edge. 
And  then  came  the  *  trimming/  with  the  great  blocks  that 
had  to  be  lifted  and  pushed  with  our  chests  and  arms  up 
on  the  top  of  the  filled  car. 

Time  went  slowly  then,  for  we  could  load  a  car  together 
in  less  than  an  hour;  and  sometimes  it  took  an  hour  and  a 
half  before  the  '  gathering '  motor  would  come  grinding  up 
into  the  room  to  give  us  an  *  empty.'  In  those  long  half- 
hours  we  would  sit  together  on  a  pile  of  coal-dust  beside 
the  track  and  try  to  talk  to  each  other. 

Jim  was  a  Greek,  and  from  what  I  was  able  to  gather, 
he  came  from  somewhere  in  the  southern  part  of  the  penin 
sula.  I  remembered  a  little  Homer,  and  I  often  tried  stray 
words  on  him;  but  my  pronunciation  of  the  Greek  of  an 
cient  Athens  was  not  the  Greek  of  Jim  Bardas;  and 
although  he  recognized  attempts  at  his  own  tongue  and 
oftentimes  the  meaning  of  the  words,  it  was  not  until  we 
discovered  a  system  of  writing  that  we  began  to  get  along. 
Mixed  in  with  the  coal  that  had  been  blasted  down  by  the 
shot-firers  the  night  before,  we  occasionally  found  strips  of 
white  paper  from  the  cartridges.  We  always  saved  these 
and  laid  them  beside  our  dinner-pails;  and  when  the  car 
was  filled  and  we  had  sat  down  again  in  the  quiet  beside 
the  track,  we  would  take  our  pit-lamps  out  of  our  caps  and, 
rubbing  our  fingers  in  the  greasy  gum  of  oil  and  coal-dust 
that  formed  under  the  lamp-spout,  we  would  write  Greek 
words  with  our  fingers  on  the  white  strips  of  paper. 

Jim  knew  some  English :  the  word  for  coal,  car,  loader  — 
and  he  learned  that  my  name  was  Joe,  and  called  me  *  My 
friend,'  and  'buddie.'  Then  sometimes,  after  the  fascina 
tion  of  writing  words  had  worn  away,  we  would  sit  still  and 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  171 

listen  to  the  gas  or  for  the  approach  of  the  motor;  and 
sometimes,  when  the  wicks  in  our  lamps  had  burned  low, 
I  would  take  out  of  my  pocket  the  round  ball  of  lamp-wick, 
and,  like  old  women  with  a  skein  of  yarn,  we  would  wind 
back  and  forth,  from  his  fingers  to  my  own,  sixteen  strands 
of  lamp-wick;  and  then,  tying  the  end  in  a  rude  knot  and 
breaking  it  off,  stick  the  skein  of  wick  down  the  spout  of 
the  lamp  until  only  the  end  remained  in  sight.  Next,  lift 
ing  the  little  lid  on  the  top,  we  would  fill  the  body  with  oil, 
shaking  it  until  the  wick  was  thoroughly  soaked  so  that  it 
would  burn. 

in 

To  the  ear  accustomed  to  the  constant  sound  of  a  living 
world,  the  stillness  of  a  coal-mine,  where  the  miles  of  cross 
cuts  and  entries  and  the  unyielding  walls  swallow  up  all 
sounds  and  echo,  is  a  silence  that  is  complete;  but,  as  one 
becomes  accustomed  to  the  silence  through  long  hours  of 
solitary  work,  sounds  become  audible  that  would  escape  an 
ear  less  trained.  The  trickling  murmur  of  the  gas;  the  spat 
tering  fall  of  a  lump  of  coal,  loosened  by  some  mysterious 
force  from  a  cranny  in  the  wall;  the  sudden  knocking  and 
breaking  of  a  stratum  far  up  in  the  rock  above ;  or  the  scurry 
of  a  rat  off  somewhere  in  the  darkness  —  strike  on  the  ear 
loud  and  startlingly.  The  eye,  too,  becomes  trained  to 
penetrate  the  darkness;  but  the  darkness  is  so  complete 
that  there  is  a  limit,  the  limit  of  the  rays  cast  by  the  pit- 
lamp. 

There  is  a  curious  thing  that  I  have  noticed,  and  as  I 
have  never  heard  it  mentioned  by  any  of  the  other  men, 
perhaps  it  is  an  idea  peculiar  to  myself;  but  on  days  when 
I  entered  the  mine,  with  the  strong  yellow  sunlight  and  the 
blue  sky  as  a  last  memory  of  the  world  above,  I  carried 
with  me  a  condition  of  fair  weather  that  seemed  to  pene- 


172  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

trate  down  into  the  blackness  of  the  entries  and  make  my 
pit-lamp  burn  a  little  more  brightly.  On  days  when  we 
entered  the  mine  with  a  gray  sky  above,  or  with  a  cold  rain 
beating  in  our  faces,  there  was  a  depression  of  spirits  that 
made  the  blackness  more  dense  and  unyielding,  and  the 
lights  from  the  lamps  seemed  less  cheerful. 

Sometimes  the  roof  was  bad  in  the  rooms,  and  I  soon 
learned  from  the  older  miners  to  enter  my  room  each  morn 
ing  testing  gingerly  with  my  pit-lamp  for  the  presence  of 
gas,  and  reaching  far  up  with  my  pick,  tapping  on  the 
smooth  stone  roof  to  test  its  strength.  If  the  steel  rang 
clean  against  the  stone,  the  roof  was  good;  but  if  it  sounded 
dull  and  drummy,  it  might  be  dangerous.  Sometimes,  when 
the  roof  was  weak,  we  would  call  for  the  section  boss  and 
prop  up  the  loosened  stone;  but  more  often,  the  men  ran 
their  risk.  We  worked  so  many  days  in  safety  that  it 
seemed  strange  that  death  could  come;  and  when  it  did 
come,  it  came  so  suddenly  that  there  was  a  surprise,  and 
the  next  day  we  began  to  forget. 

I  had  heard  much  of  the  dangers  that  the  miner  is  ex 
posed  to,  but  little  has  been  said  of  the  risks  to  which  the 
men  through  carelessness  subject  themselves.  Death  comes 
frequently  to  the  coal-miners  from  a  *  blown-out  shot.' 
When  the  blast  is  inserted  in  the  drill-hole,  several  dummy 
cartridges  are  packed  in  for  tamping.  If  these  are  properly 
made  and  tamped,  the  force  of  the  explosion  will  tear  down 
the  coal  properly;  but  if  the  man  has  been  careless  in  his 
work,  the  tamps  will  blow  out  like  shot  from  a  gun-barrel, 
and  igniting  such  gas  or  coal-dust  as  may  be  present,  kill 
or  badly  burn  the  shot-firers.  The  proper  tamping  is  wet 
clay,  but  it  is  impossible  to  convince  the  men  of  it,  and 
nine  out  of  ten  will  tamp  their  holes  with  dummies  filled 
with  coal-dust  (itself  a  dangerous  explosive)  scooped  up 
from  the  side  of  the  track.  Again,  powder-kegs  are  some- 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  173 

times  opened  in  a  manner  which  seems  almost  the  act  of 
an  insane  man.  Rather  than  take  the  trouble  to  unscrew 
the  cap  in  the  head  of  the  tin  powder-keg  and  pour  out  the 
powder  through  its  natural  opening,  the  miner  will  drive 
his  pick  through  the  head  of  the  keg  and  pour  the  powder 
from  the  jagged  square  hole  he  has  punched.  And  these 
are  but  two  of  the  many  voluntary  dangers  which  a  little 
care  on  the  part  of  the  men  themselves  would  obviate. 

A  mine  always  seems  more  or  less  populated  when  the 
day-shift  is  down;  for  during  the  hours  of  the  working  day, 
in  every  far  corner,  at  the  head  of  every  entry  and  room, 
there  are  men  drilling,  loading,  and  ever  pushing  forward 
its  boundaries.  At  five  o'clock  the  long  line  of  blackened 
miners  which  is  formed  at  the  foot  of  the  hoisting-shaft 
begins  to  leave  the  mine;  and  by  six  o'clock,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  a  few  inspectors  and  fire-bosses,  the  mine  is  deserted. 

The  night-shift  began  at  eight,  and  it  was  as  though 
night  had  suddenly  been  hastened  forward,  to  step  from 
the  soft  evening  twilight  on  the  hoist,  and,  in  a  brief  second, 
leave  behind  the  world  and  the  day  and  plunge  back  into 
the  darkness  of  the  mine. 

We  were  walking  up  the  track  from  the  mine-bottom 
toward  six  west-south  —  Billy  Wild,  Pat  Davis,  two  track- 
repairers,  and  I.  As  we  turned  the  corner  by  the  run- 
around,  there  came  suddenly  from  far  off  in  the  thick 
stillness  a  faint  tremor  and  a  strong  current  of  air.  The 

*  shooters '  were  at  work.   For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  we  walked 
on,  stopping  every  once  in  a  while  to  listen  to  the  far-off 

*  boom '  of  the  blasts  that  came  through  the  long  tunnels, 
faint  and  distant,  as  though  muffled  by  many  folds  of  heavy 
cloth.    We  pushed  open  the  big  trappers'  door  just  beyond 
where  First  and  Second  Right  turn  off  from  the  main  entry, 
and  came  into  the  faint  yellow  glow  of  a  single  electric 
lamp  that  hung  from  the  low  beamed  roof. 


174  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAI^MINE 

/ 

Beside  the  track,  in  a  black  niche  cut  in  the  wall  of  coal, 
two  men  were  working.  A  safe  twenty  feet  from  them  their 
lighted  pit-lamps  flared  where  they  were  hung  by  the  hooks 
from  one  of  the  props.  Round,  black  cans  of  powder  tum 
bled  together  in  the  back  of  the  alcove,  a  pile  of  empty 
paper  tubes  and  great  spools  of  thick,  white  fuse  lay  beside 
them.  We  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  track,  at  a  safe  dis 
tance  from  the  open  powder,  and  watched  them  as  they 
blew  open  the  long,  white  tubes  and  with  a  battered  funnel 
poured  in  the  coarse  grains  of  powder,  until  the  smooth, 
round  cartridge  was  filled,  a  yard  or  two  of  white  fuse  hang 
ing  from  its  end.  In  fifteen  minutes  they  had  finished,  and 
one  of  the  men  gathered  in  his  arms  the  pile  of  completed 
cartridges  and  joined  us  in  the  main  entry. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  we  neared  the  heading,  a  sudden 
singing  *  boom  *  came  down  strongly  against  the  air-current 
and  bent  back  the  flames  in  our  pit-lamps.  Far  off  in  the 
blackness  ahead,  a  point  of  light  marked  the  direction  of 
the  tunnel;  another  appeared.  Suddenly,  from  the  thick 
silence,  came  the  shrill  whine  of  the  air-drills.  A  couple  of 
lamps,  like  yellow  tongues  of  flame,  shone  dimly  in  the 
head  of  the  tunnel,  and  the  air  grew  thick  with  a  flurry  of 
fine  coal-dust.  Then,  below  the  bobbing  lights  appeared 
the  bodies  of  two  men,  stripped  to  the  waist,  the  black 
coating  of  dust  that  covered  them  moist  with  gleaming 
streaks  of  sweat. 

'How  many  holes  have  you  drilled?'  yelled  Wild,  his 
voice  drowned  by  the  scream  of  the  long  air-drill  as  the 
writhing  bit  tore  into  the  coal. 

There  was  a  final  convulsive  grind  as  the  last  inch  of  the 
six-foot  drill  sank  home,  then  the  sudden  familiar  absence 
of  sound  save  for  the  hiss  of  escaping  air. 

4  All  done  here/ 

Slowly  the  two  men  pulled  the  long  screw  blade  from  the 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAI^-MINE  175 

black  breast  of  the  coal,  the  air-hose  writhing  like  a  wound 
ed  snake  about  their  ankles.  The  driller  who  had  spoken 
wiped  his  sweaty  face  with  his  hands,  his  eyes  blinking 
with  the  dust.  He  picked  up  his  greasy  coat  from  beside 
the  track  and  wrapped  it  around  his  wet  shoulders. 

'Look  out  for  the  gas ! '  he  shouted.  *  There  is  a  bit  here, 
up  high/ 

He  raised  his  lamp  slowly  to  the  jagged  roof.  A  quick 
blue  flame  suddenly  expanded  from  the  lamp  and  puffed 
down  at  him  as  he  took  away  his  hand. 

In  the  black  end  of  the  tunnel  six  small  holes,  each  an 
inch  and  a  half  in  diameter  and  six  feet  deep,  invisible  in 
the  darkness  and  against  the  blackness  of  the  coal,  marked 
where  the  blasts  were  to  be  placed.  On  the  level  floor, 
stretching  from  one  wall  of  the  entry  to  the  other,  the  un 
dercut  had  been  ground  out  with  the  chain-machines  by 
the  machine-men  during  the  afternoon ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
blasts  were  in  and  the  fuses  lighted,  the  sudden  wrench  of 
these  charges  would  tear  down  a  solid  block  of  coal  six  feet 
deep  by  the  height  and  depth  of  the  entry,  to  fall  crushed 
and  broken  into  the  sump-cut,  ready  for  the  loaders  on  the 
following  morning. 

Selecting  and  examining  each  cartridge,  the  shooters 
charged  the  drill-holes.  Two  cartridges  of  black  powder, 
tamped  in  with  a  long  copper-headed  rod;  then  dummies 
of  clay  for  wads,  leaving  hanging  like  a  great  white  cord 
from  each  charged  drill-hole  a  yard  of  the  long,  white  fuse. 

We  turned  and  tramped  down  the  tunnel  and  squatted 
on  the  track  a  safe  fifty  yards  away.  Down  at  the  end  of 
the  tunnel  we  had  just  deserted,  bobbed  the  tiny  flames  of 
the  lights  in  the  shooters'  pit-caps.  There  was  a  faint  glow 
of  sparks.  'Coming! '  they  yelled  out  through  the  darkness, 
and  we  heard  them  running  as  we  saw  their  lights  grow 
larger. 


176  A  YEAR  IN  A  COALMINE 

For  a  minute  we  silently  waited.  Then,  from  the  far  end 
of  the  tunnel,  muffled  and  booming  like  the  breaking  of  a 
great  wave  in  some  vast  cave,  came  a  singing  roar,  now 
like  the  screech  of  metal  hurled  through  the  air,  and  the 
black  end  of  the  tunnel  flamed  suddenly  defiant;  a  solid 
square  of  crimson  flames,  like  the  window  of  a  burning 
house;  and  a  roar  of  flying  air  drove  past  us,  putting  out 
our  lights  and  throwing  us  back  against  the  rails. 

'It's  a  windy  one/  yelled  Wild.  'Look  out  for  the  rib- 
shots/ 

Like  a  final  curtain  in  a  darkened  theatre,  a  slow  pall  of 
heavy  smoke  sank  down  from  the  roof,  and  as  it  touched 
the  floor,  a  second  burst  of  flame  tore  it  suddenly  upward, 
and  far  down  the  entry,  the  trappers'  door  banged  noisily 
in  the  darkness.  Then  we  crept  back  slowly,  breathing  hard 
in  an  air  thick  with  dust  and  the  smell  of  the  burnt  black 
powder,  to  the  end  of  the  tunnel,  where  the  whole  face  had 
been  torn  loose  —  a  great  pile  of  broken  coal  against  the 
end  of  the  entry. 

Often,  bits  of  paper  from  the  cartridges,  lighted  by  the 
blast,  will  start  a  fire  in  the  piles  of  coal-dust  left  by  the 
machine-men;  and  before  the  shooters  leave  a  room  that 
has  been  blasted,  an  examination  must  be  made  in  order 
to  prevent  the  possibility  of  fire. 

All  night  long  we  moved  from  one  entry  to  another,  blast 
ing  down  in  each  six  feet  more  of  the  tunnel,  which  would 
be  loaded  out  on  the  following  day;  and  it  was  four  in  the 
morning  before  the  work  was  finished. 

It  was  usually  between  four  and  five  in  the  morning 
when  we  left  the  mine.  As  we  stepped  from  the  hoist  and 
left  behind  us  the  confining  darkness,  the  smoky  air,  and 
the  sense  of  oppression  and  silence  of  the  mine  below,  the 
soft,  fresh  morning  air  in  the  early  dawn,  or  sometimes  the 
cool  rain,  seemed  never  more  refreshing.  One  does  not 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE  177 

notice  the  silence  of  a  mine  so  much  upon  leaving  the  noise 
of  the  outer  world  and  entering  the  maze  of  tunnels  on  the 
day's  work,  as  when  stepping  off  the  hoist  in  the  early 
morning  hours,  when  the  world  is  almost  still :  the  sudden 
sense  of  sound  and  of  living  things  emphasizes,  by  con 
trast,  the  silence  of  the  underworld.  There  is  a  noise  of  life, 
and  the  very  motion  of  the  air  seems  to  carry  sounds.  A 
dog  barking  half  a  mile  away  in  the  sleeping  town  sounds 
loud  and  friendly,  and  there  seems  to  be  a  sudden  clamor 
that  is  almost  bewildering. 

IV 

It  is  natural  that  a  mine  should  have  its  superstitions. 
The  darkness  of  the  underworld,  the  silence,  the  long  hours 
of  solitary  work,  are  all  conditions  ideal  to  the  birth  of 
superstition;  and  when  the  workmen  are  drawn  from  many 
nationalities,  it  is  again  but  natural  that  the  same  should 
be  true  of  their  superstitions. 

One  night  when  Carlson,  the  general  manager,  was  sit 
ting  in  his  office,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  two 
loaders,  from  the  Hartz  Mountains,  came  into  the  room, 
talking  excitedly,  with  Little  Dick,  the  interpreter.  Their 
story  was  disconnected,  but  Carlson  gathered  the  main 
facts.  They  had  been  working  in  the  northwest  corner  of 
the  mine,  in  an  older  part  of  the  workings,  and  on  their 
way  out  that  afternoon,  as  they  were  passing  an  abandoned 
room,  they  had  noticed  several  lights  far  up  at  its  heading. 
Knowing  that  the  room  was  no  longer  being  worked,  and 
curious  as  to  who  should  be  there,  they  had  walked  up 
quietly  toward  the  lights.  Here  their  story  became  more 
confused.  There  were  two  men,  they  insisted,  and  they 
were  certain  that  they  were  dwarfs.  They  had  noticed 
them  carefully,  and  described  them  as  little  men,  with 
great  picks,  who  were  digging  or  burying  something  in  the 

13 


178  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

clay  floor  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  props.  A  sudden  terror 
had  seized  them,  and  they  had  not  delayed  to  make  further 
investigation;  but  on  the  way  out  they  had  talked  together 
and  had  decided  that  these  two  strange  creatures  had 
been  burying  some  treasure:  'a  pot  of  gold,'  one  of  them 
argued. 

Carlson  was  interested.  The  questions  and  answers  grew 
more  definite  and  more  startling.  The  two  men  whom  they 
had  seen  were  certainly  hump-backed.  They  were  wield 
ing  enormous  picks,  and  one  of  the  loaders  believed  that 
he  had  seen  them  put  something  into  the  hole.  Then  came 
their  request  that  they  might  be  allowed  to  go  back  that 
night  into  the  mine,  and  with  their  own  tools  go  to  this 
abandoned  room  and  dig  for  the  buried  treasure.  It  was 
against  precedent  to  allow  any  but  the  night-shift  into  the 
mine;  but  superstitions  are  demoralizing,  and  the  best 
remedy  seemed  to  be  to  allow  them  to  prove  themselves 
mistaken.  An  hour  later  they  were  lowered  on  the  hoist; 
and  all  that  night,  alone  in  the  silence  of  the  mine,  they 
dug  steadily  in  the  heading  of  the  abandoned  room;  but 
no  treasure  was  discovered.  All  the  next  night  they  dug; 
and  it  was  not  until  seven  nights'  labor  had  turned  over  a 
foot  and  a  half  of  the  hard  clay  of  the  entire  heading  that 
they  abandoned  their  search. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  men,  when  they  leave  the  mine 
at  the  close  of  the  shift,  to  hide  their  tools ;  and  the  imag 
inations  of  the  loaders,  worked  upon  by  eight  hours  of  soli 
tary  work,  had  doubtless  seen  in  the  forms  of  two  of  their 
companions  who  were  hiding  their  shovels  the  traditional 
gnomes  of  their  own  Hartz  Mountains. 

In  another  part  of  the  mine  another  superstition  was 
given  birth  that  led  to  a  more  unfortunate  result.  This  time 
it  happened  among  the  Croatians,  and,  unfortunately,  the 
story  was  told  throughout  the  boarding-houses  before  the 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAI^MINE  179 

bosses  learned  of  it,  so  that  one  morning  a  great  section  of 
the  mine  was  abandoned  by  the  men. 

Up  in  the  headings  of  one  of  the  entries  —  so  the  story 
went  —  lived  the  ghost  of  a  white  mule.  As  the  men 
worked  with  the  coal  before  them,  and  the  black  emptiness 
of  the  tunnel  behind,  this  phantom  mule  would  materialize 
silently  from  the  wall  of  the  entry,  and  with  the  most  dia 
bolical  expression  upon  its  face,  creep  quietly  down  behind 
its  intended  victim,  who  —  all  unconscious  of  its  presence 
—  would  be  occupied  in  loading  his  car.  If  the  man  turned, 
and  for  even  a  fraction  of  a  second  his  eyes  rested  upon  the 
phantom,  the  shape  would  suddenly  disappear;  but  if  he 
were  less  fortunate,  and  that  unconscious  feeling  of  a  pres 
ence  behind  him  did  not  compel  him  to  turn  his  eyes,  the 
phantom  mule  would  sink  his  material  teeth  deep  into  the 
miner's  shoulder;  and  death  would  follow.  It  was  fortu 
nate,  indeed,  that  the  only  two  men  who  had  been  visited 
by  this  unpleasant  apparition  had  turned  and  observed 
him. 

Perhaps  it  had  been  the  sudden  white  glare  cast  from 
the  headlight  of  a  locomotive  far  down  the  entry,  or  per 
haps  it  had  been  entirely  the  imagination,  but,  at  all  events, 
a  man  had  come  from  his  work  early  one  afternoon  inspired 
with  this  strange  vision,  and  the  next  day  another  man  also 
had  seen  it.  The  story  was  noised  around,  and  two  days 
later  the  men  stuck  firmly  to  their  determination  that  they 
would  not  enter  that  part  of  the  mine. 

Fortunately  for  the  superintendent,  a  crowd  of  Bulga 
rians  had  just  arrived  from  East  St.  Louis,  seeking  employ 
ment.  The  Croatians  were  sent  into  another  part  of  the 
mine  to  work,  a  mile  from  the  haunted  entries,  where  there 
were  no  unpleasant  ghosts  of  white  mules  to  disturb  their 
labors;  and  so  long  as  the  mine  remained  in  operation,  there 
is  no  further  record  of  the  unpleasant  ramblings  of  this 


180  A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL-MINE 

fantastical  animal;  at  least,  none  of  the  Bulgarians  ever 
saw  it. 

With  the  mule  came  the  ghost  of  a  little  white  dog;  but 
for  some  curious  reason,  although  the  dog  was  reported  by 
many  to  have  run  out  from  abandoned  rooms  and  barked 
at  the  men  as  they  stumbled  up  the  entry,  but  little  atten 
tion  was  paid  to  it,  and  it  seemed  to  possess  no  particularly 
disturbing  influence. 

There  were  many  Negroes  in  the  mine  and  they,  too,  had 
their  'h'ants'  and  superstitions;  but  these  were  of  a  more 
ordinary  nature.  In  Room  2,  third  west-south,  a  sudden 
fall  of  rock  from  the  roof  had  caught  two  miners.  Tons  of 
stone  had  followed,  and  in  a  second,  two  men  had  been 
crushed,  killed,  and  buried.  Death  must  have  been  instan 
taneous,  and  months  of  labor  would  have  been  required  to 
recover  the  bodies,  which  were  probably  crushed  out  of 
human  resemblance;  but  even  years  after  this  happened, 
Room  2  was  one  that  was  carefully  avoided  by  all  the 
Negroes,  and  if  it  ever  became  necessary  for  one  of  them 
to  pass  it  alone,  he  would  always  go  by  on  the  run;  for  back 
under  the  tons  of  white  shale  that  came  down  straight 
across  the  room-mouth  the  ghosts  of  Old  Man  Gleason  and 
another,  whose  name  was  forgotten,  still  remained  — 
immortal. 

It  was  to  prevent  the  establishment  of  such  superstitions 
that  the  shift  was  always  called  off  for  the  day  if  a  man 
was  killed  in  the  mine;  and  in  the  morning,  when  the  men 
returned  to  their  work,  the  boss  of  the  section  in  which 
the  unfortunate  miner  had  met  his  death  took  particular 
care  to  place  several  men  together  at  that  place,  in  order 
that  no  superstition  might  grow  up  around  it. 


WOMAN'S  SPHERE 

BY   S.    H.    KEMPEB 

'WILBUR,  dear,'  said  Aunt  Susan,  'Rosa  is  very  busy 
with  the  washing  this  morning,  and  if  you  will  go  down  into 
the  garden  and  gather  this  basket  full  of  peas  and  then 
shell  them  for  her  to  cook  for  dinner,  I  will  — '  Aunt 
Susan  paused  to  reflect  a  moment,  then  continued,  'I  will 
give  you  a  new  ball  for  a  birthday  present/ 

Aunt  Susan  smiled  kindly  at  the  flashing  look  of  intense 
joy  that  Wilbur  lifted  to  her  face  as  he  seized  the  basket 
she  was  holding  out  to  him. 

'I  —  I'd  just  love  to  have  it! '  he  exclaimed. 

He  was  quite  overcome  with  emotion,  and  tore  away 
(ojyard  the  garden  at  top  speed. 

I  Wilbur's  mother  was  ill,  and  Wilbur  had  been  sent  to 
visit  Aunt  Susan  in  order  that  the  house  might  be  quiet. 
Aunt  Susan  was  really  Wilbur's  father's  aunt.  She  was 
grandma's  sister,  and  she  was  very  old.  Grandma  was  not 
old.  Her  hair  was  white,  but  it  went  in  nice  squiggles 
around  her  face,  and  she  wore  big  hats  with  plumes  and 
shiny,  rustly  dresses,  and  high-heeled  shoes.  And  when 
she  kissed  you  she  clasped  you  in  a  powerful  embrace 
against  her  chest.  Grandma  was  not  old.  But  Aunt  Susan, 
with  her  smooth  gray  hair  and  her  wrinkled  face  and  spec 
tacles,  her  plain  black  dress  and  little  shawl,  and  her  funny 
cloth  shoes,  seemed  to  Wilbur  a  being  inconceivably 
stricken  of  old.  You  felt  intensely  sorry  for  her  for  being  so 
old.  You  were  so  sorry  that  you  felt  it  inside  of  you;  it  was 
almost  as  if  your  stomach  ached.  And  she  was  always  kind 
and  gentle.  You  felt  that  it  would  be  a  grievous  thing  to 
hurt  her  feelings  or  trouble  her  in  any  way. 


182  WOMAN'S  SPHERE 

Wilbur's  birthday  came  on  Thursday  and  this  was  only 
Monday.  A  long  time  to  wait.  \ Wilbur  needed  a  ball  very 
badly  I  He  had  made  friends  with  a  number  of  boys  here  in 
Aunt  Susan's  town!  and  the  Baseball  season  was  at  its 
height.  WilburVfriends  owned  several  perfectly  worthy 
bats  and  two  or  three  gloves,  but  there  was  a  serious  lack 
of  balls. 

That  afternoon,  joining  the  boy 


they  played,  Wilbur  informed  them  with  great  satisfaction 
of  Aunt  Susan's  promise.* 

*  My  aunt  is  going  to  give  me  a  new  ball  on  my  birthday,' 

he  said  to  them.  dfil&fr  ~~~~^ 

~~  They  were  more  than  pleased  with  the  news.  Wilbur 
found  himself  the  centre  of  flattering  interest.  He  told 
them  that  he  guessed  it  would  be  a  regular  league  ball. 

Wilbur  exerted  himself  earnestly  to  be  helpful  to  Aunt 
Susan  and  Rosa  all  day  on  Tuesday  and  Wednesday.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  do  enough  for  Aunt  Susan,  and  also 
that  it  would  be  well  to  remind  her  of  her  promise  by  con 
stant  acts  of  courtesy  and  service,  for  it  was  a  long  time 
before  Thursday.  But  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  any  one 
could  really  forget  an  affair  so  important  and  so  agreeable 
as  the  purchase  of  a  ball. 

Wilbur  knew  where  Aunt  Susan  would  get  the  ball:  at 
Reiter's  store,  of  course.  Reiter  kept  a  store  where  books 
and  magazines  and  athletic  goods  were  sold.  He  kept  all 
the  standard  things ;  the  ball  would  be  of  a  good  make,  Wil- , 
bur  was  sure.  ^_J 

Aunt  Susan  did  not  ofteii  go  down  town.  Except  when 
busy  about  her  housekeeping,  she  was  likely  to  spend  the 
time  rocking  in  her  old-fashioned  rocker  on  the  front  porch, 
with  a  work-basket  beside  her,  occupying  herself  with 
needlework  or  knitting.  She  knitted  a  great  deal.  There 
were  many  bright-colored  wools  in  her  work-basket. 


WOMAN'S  SPHERE  183 

On  Wednesday  afternoon  Wilbur's  heart  gave  an  excited 
jump  when  he  saw  Aunt  Susan  coming  downstairs  tymg-her 
little Jbonnet  over-hep  gray  hair.  Her  black  silk  shopping- 
bag  hung  on  her  arm.  Wilbur  did  not  doubt  that  she  was 
going  down  town  with  an  eye  single  to  Reiter's  store.  He 
assumed  an  unconscious  air,  just  as  one  did  when  mother 
went  shopping  before  Christmas.  He  watched  Aunt 
Susan  out  of  sight,  and  afterward  hung  about  the  front 
yard  till  he  saw  her  returning.  He  ran  to  open  the  gate  for 
her  and  took  her  parasol  and  bag,  looking  up  at  her  with 
bright,  trustful  eyes.  The  bag  seemed  quite  full  of  small 
parcels  as  he  carried  it  for  Aunt  Susan. 

Wilbur  fell  asleep  that  night  wondering  whether  Aunt 
Susan  would  put  the  ball  on  the  breakfast-table  next  morn 
ing,  where  he  would  see  it  when  he  entered  the  dining- 
room.  Perhaps  she  would  bring  it  after  he  was  asleep,  and 
place  it  on  the  chair  beside  his  bed,  or  perhaps  on  the  old- 
fashioned  bureau.  There  were  many  happy  possibilities. 
\  When  the  window  opposite  his  bed  began  to  grow  bright 
with  the  pink  and  gold  of  sunrise,  Wilbur  woke  and  sat  up, 
looking  first  at  the  chair,  then  at  the  bureau.  No,  it  was 
not  in  the  room.  It  would  be  in  the  dining-room,  then. 
When  he  went  downstairs  he  was  surprised  to  find  that 
Aunt  Susan  had  not  yet  left  her  room.  In  the  kitchen  Rosa 
was  only  beginning  her  preparations  for  breakfast.  Wilbur 
spent  a  long  time,  a  restless  but  happy  hour,  waiting,  idling 
about  the  dewy  garden  and  the  front  yard,  feeding  the 
chickens  and  playing  with  the  cat. 

At  last  Rosa  rang  the  bell  and  Wilbur  went  into  the 
house.  Aunt  Susan,  seated  at  the  breakfast  table,  greeted 
him  affectionately. 

'Many  happy  returns,  dear!'  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

She  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  his  cheek.  Now,  surely — 


184  p  WOMAN'S  SPHERE 

But  the  ball  was  not  on  the  table  beside  his  plate.  He 
could  not  see  it  anywhere  in  the  room. 

The  breakfasts  at  Aunt  Susan's  were  always  good.  There 
would  be  fried  chicken  and  waffles,  or  muffins,  and  squashy 
corn  bread.  Indeed  all  meal-times  at  Aunt  Susan's  would 
have  been  periods  of  unmixed  joy  if  Ajunt  Susan  had  not 
felt  obliged  to  keep  up  a  steady  conversation.  Aunt  Susan 
made  small  talk  laboriously.  It  distracted  your  mind.  She 
had  a  strange  delusion  that  one  was  avidly  interested  in 
one's  schoolbooks.  She  constantly  dwelt  upon  the  subject 
of  school.  It  made  things  difficult,  for  school  was  over  now 
and  all  its  rigors  happily  forgotten.  This  morning,  what 
with  Aunt  Susan's  talk  and  his  excitement,  Wilbur  could 
hardly  eat  anything. 

Breakfast  was  over.  Aunt  Susan  and  Rosa  were  in  the 
pantry  consulting  on  housekeeping  matters^  Wilbur  sat 
down  in  a  rocking-chair  on  the  front  porch  and  waited. 
He  waited  and  waited,  rocking  violently.  And  then  at 
last  he  heard  Aunt  Susan  calling  him. 

He  was  out  of  his  chair  and  in  the  hall  like  a  flash. 

'Yes'm,'  he  answered.  'Yes'm.  What  is  it,  Aunt 
Susan?' 

Aunt  Susan  was  coming  down  the  stairs. 

'Here  is  the  ball  I  promised  you,  dear,'  she  said.  She 
placed  in  his  outstretched  hand  — 

Wilbur  had  visualized  it  so  vividly,  had  imagined  the  de 
sired  thing  with  such  intensity,  that  it  was  as  if  a  strange 
transformation  had  taken  place  before  his  eyes.  He  was 
holding,  not  the  hard,  heavy,  white  ball  he  had  seemed 
actually  to  see,  with  its  miraculously  perfect  stitching  and 
the  trim  lettering  of  the  name  upon  it:  a  curious,  soft  thing 
lay  in  his  hand,  a  home-made  ball  constructed  of  wools. 
There  seemed  to  be  millions  of  short  strands  of  bright- 
colored  wools,  all  held  together  in  the  centre  by  some  means 


WOMAN'S  SPHERE  185 

and  sticking  out  in  every  direction.  Their  smoothly 
clipped  ends  formed  the  surface  of  the  ball. 

It  was  the  kind  of  thing  you  would  give  a  baby  in  a  go- 
cart. 

Wilbur  stood  and  gazed  at  it.  The  kind  of  thing  you 
would  give  a  baby  in  a  go-cart !  Then  he  looked  up  at  Aunt 
Susan,  and  suddenly  the  sense  of  his  great  disappointment 
was  lost  in  that  immense,  aching  pity  for  her.  She  was  so 
old,  and  she  had  made  it  herself,  thinking  it  would  please 
him. 

'It's  —  it's  awful  pretty!'  Wilbur  stammered. 

1  He  felt  inexpressibly  sorry  for  Aunt  Susan.  How  could 
any  one  be  so  utterly  without  comprehension  !_J 

Aunt  Susan  patted  his  cheek. 

'You  have  been  a  good  boy,'  she  said.  *I  hope  you  will 
enjoy  playing  at  ball  with  your  little  friends.' 

Wilbur  went  cold.  The  other  fellows !  He  foresaw  well 
enough  their  attitude  toward  his  misfortune.  To  them  it 
would  seem  a  subject  for  unsparing  derision.  The  kind  of 
thing  you  would  give  a  baby  in  a  go-cart !  And  he  had  said, 
'I  guess  it  will  be  a  regular  league  ball.' 

Aunt  Susan  went  away  upon  her  housekeeping  activities, 
and  Wilbur,  after  standing  for  a  while  turning  the  woolly 
ball  in  his  hands,  went  upstairs  to  his  room.  He  hid  the 
ball  under  the  neatly  folded  garments  in  the  upper  drawer 
of  the  bureau.  It  was  a  relief  to  get  it  out  of  sight.  He  had 
a  heavy,  sickish  feeling  in  his  chest.  The  more  he  thought 
over  his  trouble,  the  greater  it  seemed.  A  great  dread  of 
having  the  other  boys  know  about  it  possessed  him.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  possibly  bear  the  ignominy. 

The  morning  dragged  itself  heavily  away.  Wilbur  re 
mained  indoors.  He  could  not  go  out  for  fear  the  other 
fellows  might  see  him.  He  winced  painfully  at  the  thought 
of  meeting  them. 


186  WOMAN'S  SPHERE 

/    , 

i     Rosa  baked  a  fine  cake  for  him,  decorating  it  tastefully 

with  nine  pink  candles,  but  Wilbur  regarded  it  wanly.      / 

At  dinner  Aunt  Susan  noticed  his  lack  of  appetite  and 
fussed  over  him  anxiously,  dismaying  his  soul  with  dark 
hints  of  doses  of  medicine. 

'I  don't  feel  a  bit  sick,  Aunt  Susan/  he  protested;  '  hon 
est,  I  don't.' 

He  felt  almost  desperate.  He  was  heavy-hearted  with 
his  disappointment,  oppressed  with  the  fear  of  discovery; 
and  now  he  must  be  harried  and  pursued  with  threats  of 
medicine. 

It  was  a  miserable  afternoon.  Wilbur  undertook  to 
write  a  letter  to  his  mother.  Usually  Aunt  Susan  was 
obliged  to  urge  him  to  his  duty,  but  to-day  it  offered  an 
excuse  to  remain  indoors,  and  Wilbur  seized  it  gladly. 
Writing  a  letter  was  a  business  that  took  time  and  effort. 
After  a  while,  as  Wilbur  sat  in  the  attitude  of  composition, 
with  his  legs  wrapped  around  the  legs  of  his  chair  and  his 
shoulders  hunched  over  the  table,  Aunt  Susan's  anxious 
eye  detected  the  fact  that  he  was  not  writing  but  was  ab 
sently  chewing  his  pencil. 

*  Wilbur,  dear,'  Aunt  Susan  said,  'you  are  staying  in  the 
house  too  much.  Put  your  letter  away  now  and  run  out  of 
doors.  I  think  you  need  the  fresh  air.  You  can  finish  your 
letter  to-morrow.' 

'Oh,  I  would  rather  finish  it  now,  please,'  Wilbur  said; 
'you  know  poppa  is  coming  to  see  us  this  evening,  and  if 
I  get  it  done  I  can  give  it  to  him  to  take  to  mamma.' 

He  hastily  stuck  out  his  tongue  and,  breathing  heavily, 
began  to  write. 

Throughout  the  afternoon  Wilbur  contrived  by  one  ex 
cuse  or  another  to  remain  in  the  house.  After  the  early  tea 
Aunt  Susan  sat  down  in  one  of  the  porch  rockers  with  her 
knitting  and  Wilbur  sedately  took  another.  With  great 


WOMAN'S  SPHERE  187 

effort  he  sustained  the  conversation  which  Aunt  Susan 
considered  necessary.  Presently,  with  a  throb  of  alarm, 
Wilbur  saw  Henry,  the  boy  who  lived  next  door,  climbing 
the  fence  dividing  the  two  yards.  With  fascinated  dread 
Wilbur  watched  him  approach.  He  stood  still  at  the  foot 
of  the  porch  steps. 

*  Hello/  he  said  in  his  deep  and  husky  voice. 

4 Hello,'  Wilbur  replied  coldly. 

'Good  evening,  Henry/  said  Aunt  Susan;  'sit  down  and 
make  us  a  visit.  How  is  your  father?  How  is  your  mother? 
When  is  your  married  sister  coming  home  for  a  visit?* 
And  so  on. 

Henry  sat  down  on  the  steps,  answering  Aunt  Susan  with 
weary  civility.  Wilbur  rocked  and  rocked  with  nervous 
violence.  Sitting  in  a  chair  like  a  grown  person,  he  felt  a 
certain  aloofness  from  Henry  on  the  steps.  It  was  a  poor 
enough  security,  but  he  clung  to  it.  And  then  suddenly 
Aunt  Susan  was  saying,  — 

'Wilbur,  get  the  ball  I  gave  you  and  play  a  game  of  ball 
with  Henry.' 

The  moment  of  discovery  had  come.  And  Wilbur  found 
himself  wondering  dully  what  Aunt  Susan's  idea  of  a  ball 
game  could  be  like.  His  mind  seemed  to  fumble  stiffly  with 
the  unimportant  thought.  He  rose  heavily.  Henry  had 
snapped  up  briskly  from  his  place  on  the  steps  as  Aunt 
Susan  spoke. 

'  That 's  right ! '  he  said.  '  Let 's  get  out  there  in  the  road 
and  warm  up.' 

Wilbur  turned  to  enter  the  house. 

'I'll  go  with  you,'  Henry  said. 

They  ascended  the  stairs,  Wilbur  lagging  on  every  step 
and  Henry  breasting  forward  like  a  home  ward-bound  horse. 
They  crossed  the  little  upstairs  hall  and  stood  at  the  door  of 
Wilbur's  room.  The  woolly  ball  lay  on  the  bureau,  its  many 


188  WOMAN'S  SPHERE 

colors  garish  in  the  sunset.  Wilbur  had  left  it  in  the  drawer, 
but  Rosa  had  been  in  the  room  putting  away  his  freshly 
ironed  clothes,  and  had  taken  it  out  and  placed  it  on  top  of 
the  bureau  for  all  the  world  to  see. 

Wilbur  shut  his  eyes  and  waited  for  a  bitter  outcry  from 
Henry.  There  was,  however,  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then 
Henry  demanded  impatiently,  — 

*  Well,  where  is  it  at?' 

Wilbur  opened  his  eyes  and  regarded  Henry  stupidly. 
Henry  then  did  not  even  recognize  the  strange,  bright  ob 
ject  on  the  bureau  as  a  ball.  Probably  he  took  it  for  a  pin 
cushion.  The  shock  of  the  unexpected  reprieve  made  Wil 
bur  feel  faint  and  confused. 

'It's  here  —  it's  right  in  this  room,'  he  stammered. 

'In  the  bruy-yo? '  Henry  asked,  pointing  toward  the  old- 
fashioned  bureau. 

'I  —  I  left  it  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  bruy-yo.' 

Henry  went  and  opened  the  drawers  one  by  one  and 
rummaged  in  them. 

'It  ain't  here!'  he  exclaimed;  'I  bet  somebody's  stolen  it 
from  you !  The  colored  girl !  I  bet  she' s  stolen  it ! ' 

'  Aw,  she  would  n't  steal !  She's  nice ! '  Wilbur  exclaimed; 
but  even  as  he  spoke,  he  saw  his  mistake.  Henry  had  made 
the  descent  to  a  course  of  deceit,  of  hideous  disloyalty  to  a 
dear  friend,  fearfully  easy!  Wilbur  descended.  'Maybe,' 
he  faltered, '  maybe  she  needed  a  ball  awfully  and  just  had 
to  take  it!  Maybe  she  needed  it  awfully!' 

'  Well,  ain't  you  going  to  try  to  get  it  back  from  her? ' 

'Oh,  no!'  Wilbur  cried  in  horror.  'I  won't  say  a  word 
about  it.  It  would  hurt  her  feelings.  She's  nice  — ' 

'Well,  I  bet  if  it  was  my  ball  and  anybody  stole  it  I  would 
raise  an  awful  row!' 

'I  won't  say  anything  about  it,'  Wilbur  repeated.  'It 
would  hurt  her  feelings.  And  I  guess  you  better  go  home 


WOMAN'S  SPHERE  189 

now,  Henry.  Maybe  your  mother  is  wondering  where  you 
are.' 

Wilbur  adopted  the  formula  with  which  other  boys' 
mothers  were  wont  to  put  him  on  the  social  inclined  plane. 
He  felt  a  desperate  need  to  be  rid  of  Henry.  Henry  de 
parted  without  resentment. 

A  little  later  Wilbur's  father  came.  It  was  a  comfort  to 
have  poppa  there.  Wilbur's  tired  spirit  leaned  against  his 
big,  quiet  strength.  In  the  dusk  Aunt  Susan  and  poppa 
sat  on  the  porch  and  talked.  Wilbur  stood  beside  poppa's 
chair.  It  was  peaceful  and  cool  in  the  late  evening.  Wilbur 
liked  to  hear  the  noise  the  katydids  made  in  the  trees.  It 
went  on,  over  and  over  and  over  — 

Suddenly,  as  if  recollecting  something  he  had  forgotten, 
poppa  put  his  hand  into  his  coat  pocket  and  drew  out  — 
It  was  the  ball  of  Wilbur's  dreams.  Poppa,  still  talking  to 
Aunt  Susan,  was  holding  it  out  to  him.  He  saw  it  in  all  its 
utterly  desirable  excellence,  its  natty  charms,  hard  and 
heavy  and  smooth  and  gleaming  white.  Wilbur's  small 
brown  fingers  curved  themselves  feebly  upon  its  taut  sides. 
He  did  not  speak,  but  his  long-lashed  eyes,  brooding  upon\ 
the  perfection  within  his  grasp,  lifted  for  a  moment  to  his 
father's  face  a  deep  look  of  such  intensity  that  poppa  was 
startled. 

'It's  your  birthday,  old  chap,'  he  said,  putting  his  arm 
around  Wilbur.  'I  thought  you  might  like  a  new  ball.' 

He  felt  Wilbur  trembling  slightly  and  wondered  whether, 
in  spite  of  the  little  fellow's  seemingly  perfect  health,  he 
could  be  an  over-strung  and  nervous  child. 

'Now  you  have  two  balls,'  Aunt  Susan  said  fatuously, 
rocking  herself  in  her  old  rocker. 

6  Yes  'm,'  said  Wilbur. 

From  the  security  of  his  immense  felicity  he  smiled  at 
her  kindly,  very  kindly,  very  indulgently,  for  how  could 
she  understand? 


BABANCHIK 

BY   CHRISTINA   KRYSTO 


IT  was  my  smallest  brother  who  called  him  that,  because, 
at  the  time  of  their  meeting,  he  could  not  manage  the  whole 
of  his  very  long  name.  But  his  friends  took  it  up  presently, 
liking  the  ridiculous  yet  oddly  caressing  sound  of  it,  until 
all  who  knew  him  well  knew  him  only  as  Rabanchik. 

I  remember  him  first  as  a  chance  guest  in  my  father's 
house  by  the  side  of  the  Black  Sea  —  a  big,  deep-chested 
man  in  a  badly  wrinkled  pongee  suit,  who  missed  his  train 
because  we  children  had  drawn  him  into  a  game  of  hide- 
and-seek.  I  can  still  hear  his  laughter-filled  voice  demand 
ing  fiercely,  'Where  are  they?  Where  are  they?'  as  he 
flung  himself  about  the  room,  making  wide  detours  to 
avoid  our  feet,  which  protruded  from  under  the  cloth-hung 
table,  while  the  train,  with  his  car  attached,  paused  a 
moment  at  the  'half  station'  at  the  far  end  of  the  pasture 
and  went  roaring  on  along  the  shore.  He  stayed  the  night 
with  us,  and  our  child- world  changed  forthwith. 

During  the  two  years  which  followed,  the  play-times  of 
Babanchik  and  his  children  were  inextricably  bound  with 
ours,  and  the  distance  between  our  homes  grew  very  short. 
At  Christmas  we  danced  around  the  scintillating  tree  in 
his  spacious  Tiflis  house,  and  at  Easter  he  helped  us  with 
the  beating  of  the  innumerable  eggs  which  go  into  the 
Easter  bread  of  Russia,  spattering  the  kitchen  wall  most 
dreadfully. 

Business  brought  him  often  to  Batum,  which  lay  just 
over  the  hill  from  us  —  so  often  that  we  fell  into  the  habit 


BABANCfflK  191 

of  racing  down  to  the  pasture-bars  every  Saturday  to  wait 
for  the  afternoon  train.  It  was  long  and  wearying,  that 
walk  back,  on  the  days  when  the  train  clattered  by  without 
pausing.  But  on  other  days,  when,  just  this  side  of  the 
cliff,  the  engine  whistled  to  announce  the  stop,  —  when  we 
listened,  breathless,  for  the  setting  of  the  brakes,  when  we 
saw  his  huge  figure  swing  lightly  from  the  steps,  coat- 
pockets  bulging  with  mysteries,  and  heard  the  gay  voice 
shouting  that  his  own  car  would  not  come  by  until  Monday, 
—  the  walk  home  was  a  march  of  triumph.  Two  summers 
we  spent  together  in  a  half -starved  Georgian  village  high 
in  the  Caucasus  Mountains,  where  we  lived  on  bread  and 
eggs,  both  reeking  with  the  wild  garlic  which  grew  thick 
among  the  wheat;  ran,  bare  of  head  and  foot,  over  the 
pine-grown  canons ;  and  loved  every  moment  of  it. 

It  was  in  those  two  summers  that  we  came  to  know 
Babanchik  best  and  to  adore  him  accordingly.  We  might 
emulate  the  manners  of  Manya,  his  young-lady  daughter 
of  twelve;  we  might  acknowledge  the  leadership  of  his 
harum-scarum  son  Kolya;  but  it  was  Babanchik  who  really 
counted.  It  was  he  who  led  our  marvelous  expeditions  to 
the  neighboring  peaks,  his  clothes  steaming  with  the  effort 
of  that  leadership  —  he  who  showed  us  where  to  look  for 
mushrooms,  and  later  fried  those  mushrooms  for  us,  sur 
reptitiously,  lest  mother  begrudge  us  the  butter  where  no 
new  supply  was  to  be  had.  His  mind  it  was  which  settled, 
wisely  and  fairly,  all  our  momentous  quarrels,  and  invented 
countless  new  and  fascinating  games  when  we  had  tired 
of  the  everlasting  croquet.  But  for  him  we  should  never 
have  bathed  in  the  yellow  water  of  the  mad  Kura,  water  so 
muddy  that  it  left  great  streaks  across  the  bath-towels;  but 
for  him  we  should  never  have  been  forgiven  for  robbing  the 
little  forest  church  of  candles  with  which  to  rub  the  porch 
floor  whenever  we  wanted  to  dance. 


192  BABANCmK 

That  the  merry  existence  of  his  vacations  was  but  a 
small  part  of  his  life,  we  knew,  even  as  we  guessed  that  the 
man  who  frolicked  with  us  lived  only  in  the  hours  of  play. 
For  often  at  tea-time  on  the  porch  we  came  upon  the  other 
Babanchik,  a  bitter  and  fearsome  man  who  talked  to 
father  in  a  voice  which,  to  us,  was  the  voice  of  a  stranger. 
They  made  us  very  wretched,  those  tea-times,  when  from 
an  obscure  porch  corner  we  watched  him  striding  up  and 
down  along  the  railing,  the  smile  gone  from  his  eyes,  his 
cheeks  flushed,  his  arms  waving  wildly.  For  we  could  never 
understand  why  the  man  who  taught  us  that  it  was  cruel  to 
step  on  ants,  seemed  so  ready  and  eager,  at  those  times,  to 
throttle  some  one,  we  knew  not  whom,  unless  it  were  the 
terrible  creature  he  called  the  Russian  government.  It  all 
hurt  us  inexpressibly.  Yet  hour  after  hour  we  watched  him 
and  listened  to  his  long,  involved  denunciations  of  oppres 
sion  and  dishonesty  and  selfishness  and  class-distinction 
and  many  other  long  words  which  we  could  not  grasp. 
And  most  difficult  to  fathom  was  his  oft-repeated  assertion 
that  he  was  doing  all  that  talking  in  behalf  of  us. 

'It  is  for  the  children  that  I  fight!'  he  would  shout, 
stamping  feverishly  up  and  down  the  long  porch;  'for  my 
Manya  and  Kolya,  and  for  your  boys  and  girls  and  all  the 
countless  thousands  of  others  whose  lot  has  been  cast  with 
this  accursed  country !  I  must  fight,  for  I  know  what  will 
come  to  them!  Their  souls  will  be  dwarfed  and  crippled  by 
our  stupid  schools  and  our  stupid  laws,  and  their  minds 
poisoned  and  embittered  by  suspicion  and  hatred  and  the 
damning  sense  of  their  impotence,  as  long  as  conditions 
here  remain  what  they  are!  Our  lives  are  behind  us,  yours 
and  mine.  But  we  must  make  theirs  different  for  them, 
must  keep  them  away  from  strait-jacket  regulations, 
must  keep  them  happy  and  trustful  and  brave!  It  is  for 


BABANCHIK  193 

this  that  I  fight !  And  I  would  fight  if  I  knew  that  I  could 
not  change  a  word  of  our  laws  and  our  statutes ! ' 

He  did  fight.  Unceasingly,  along  with  his  rouad,  work, 
—  he  was  one  of  the  managers  of  a  Caucasian  railrotine  — 
went  the  bigger  work  of  making  his  corner  of  the  world  a 
better  place  for  those  who  came  behind  him.  He  fought  in 
the  ranks  of  his  employees,  that  the  least  of  these  might 
claim  justice  and  equality;  pleaded  with  school  boards  and 
schoolmasters  for  patience  and  generosity  toward  their 
charges;  and  fought  —  and  this  was  the  most  bitter  fight 
of  all  —  against  those  who  held  in  their  hands  the  destinies 
of  his  city. 

In  all  this  he  was  severely  handicapped.  An  Armenian 
by  birth,  which  in  itself  matters  even  in  cosmopolitan  Cau 
casus,  he  had  inherited  the  ungovernable  temper  and  un 
bridled  tongue  of  his  people;  and  this,  coupled  with  his  love 
for  truth,  worked  him  unceasing  woe  among  the  hidebound 
conservatism  of  his  associates. 

All  this  Babanchik  knew.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  knowl 
edge,  he  had  a  dream  of  becoming  a  member  of  the  city 
Duma,  that  he  might  have  a  real  voice  in  the  direction  of 
the  city's  fortunes.  It  should  not  have  been  a  thing  so  dif 
ficult  of  attainment.  Time  after  time  his  name  was  pro 
posed  for  the  city  ballot;  time  after  time  hordes  of  en 
thusiastic  friends  made  his  election  a  certainty;  and  time 
after  time,  as  the  deciding  day  drew  near,  his  candidature 
was  suppressed,  his  name  withheld  from  the  ballot,  his 
adherents  silenced  —  and  the  dream  remained  a  dream. 
No  one  knew  just  when  it  happened,  or  just  how:  he  was 
an  Armenian  and  a  revolutionist,  a  freethinker  and  an 
enemy  of  the  government,  marked  'neblagonadejny'  (not 
to  be  depended  upon)  in  the  police-books  of  the  city — 
and  no  country  knows  so  well  as  does  Russia  how  best  to 
curtail  the  activities  of  such  men. 

14 


194  BABANCHIK 

What  he  could  do  in  spite  of  these  drawbacks,  he  did. 
Was  he  not  our  undauntable  Babanchik?  If  he  could  not 
insure  fair  play  for  the  men  of  his  railroad,  he  could  give 
them  of  his  advice  and  sympathy,  and  they  forgot  to  ask 
for  more.  If  additional  factory  windows  did  not  come  into 
being  at  his  command,  he  could  still  lend  his  money  to 
those  of  the  workers  who  fell  victims  to  the  foul  air;  and 
how  beautifully  he  lost  his  temper  when  a  borrower  spoke 
of  interest!  And  if  school  boards  and  schoolmasters  re 
mained  unyielding  in  their  demands  upon  the  children  he 
loved,  at  least  the  holidays  were  his,  when  he  could  take 
those  children  on  long  walks  in  the  open  and  teach  them  to 
respect  their  souls  and  not  to  step  on  ants. 

All  of  which  we  learned  much  later.  At  the  time,  he  was 
merely  our  Babanchik,  without  whom  the  world  could  no 
longer  be  imagined;  who  came  in  the  evening  to  blow  out 
our  candles  because  he  had  guessed  that  the  memory  of  his 
good-night  laugh  cheated  the  dark  of  its  dangers;  whose 
rumbling  shout  awakened  us  in  the  morning  and  opened 
up  for  us  a  new  day  of  unsuspected  possibilities. 

ii 

The  third  summer  we  did  not  go  to  the  mountains. 
Some  one  else  was  sharing  Babanchik's  cottage  in  the 
Georgian  village;  he  was  leading  a  band  of  new  children 
in  search  of  mushrooms  and  adventure.  But  we  were  too 
excited  to  care,  even  in  the  face  of  this. 

A  new  unrest  hung  over  our  house.  All  the  day  long 
father  was  showing  strangers  about  the  place,  pointing  out 
to  them  the  value  of  the  untouched  forest,  the  richness  of 
the  pasture  land,  the  clearness  of  the  drinking  water,  the 
glories  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea.  In  the  sun-filled 
glass  room  which  served  as  library  mother  was  superintend 
ing  the  sorting  and  packing  of  books.  And  a  placid-faced 


BABANCHIK  195 

woman  with  the  patience  of  a  saint  was  fitting  our  squirm 
ing  bodies  into  trim,  tight-fitting  clothes,  which,  after  the 
loose,  shapeless  things  we  had  always  worn,  vexed  us  end 
lessly.  We  were  going  to  America. 

Babanchik  came  to  us  often  in  those  last  weeks,  inex 
pressibly  saddened  by  our  impending  departure;  and  his 
discussions,  to  which  father  listened  a  bit  abstractedly 
now,  grew  ever  more  violent.  Though  their  invariable 
ending  filled  us  with  an  unexpected  hope :  — 

'  When  my  work  is  done  here,  I  will  come  to  you,  in  the 
United  States.  1  cannot,  now  —  there  is  still  so  much  to 
be  done  for  my  weaker  friends.  But  when  I  am  very  tired, 
so  tired  that  I  can  no  longer  endure  it,  I  shall  take  my 
children  and  come  to  you  —  to  forget  the  Russia  that  I 
hate/ 

So  we  parted.  We  leaned  over  the  rail  of  an  Odessa 
steamer,  our  arms  overflowing  with  the  packages  he  had 
brought  us;  and  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  waving 
his  hat  and  smiling.  But  tears  were  running  down  his 
brown  cheeks  and  losing  themselves  in  his  beard. 

The  new  life,  the  new  language,  new  interests,  caught  us. 
From  the  first  Russia  seemed  very  far  behind.  Several 
letters  followed  us.  Kolya  wrote  three  or  four  in  his  uneven 
round  hand  —  funny  little  letters  which  began,  'We  have 
two  ducks  and  two  puppies.  How  many  dogs  have  you?' 
and  which  were  properly  answered  in  kind.  After  that,  we 
forgot  very  quickly. 

But  Babanchik  did  not  forget.  Once  every  month  we 
found  in  our  mail-box  a  fat,  square,  carelessly  addressed 
envelope,  which  held  a  letter  for  father  and  a  folded  note 
for  each  of  us.  The  notes  were  full  of  gay  nonsense,  stories 
and  rhymes  and  caricatures;  but  father  grew  very  thought 
ful  over  the  letters. 

Life  was  pressing  Babanchik  hard.  He  was  still  without 


196  BABANCHIK 

thought  of  defeat.  But  his  enemies  were  bringing  more 
stringent  methods  into  the  combat;  he  was  now  being  con 
stantly  watched.  Other  troubles  were  even  harder  to  bear. 
The  government  was  consciously  setting  the  hot-headed 
Georgians  and  Armenians  at  each  other's  throats,  that 
neither  might  have  time  to  think  of  greater  issues.  And 
Babanchik  could  but  stand  by  and  watch  the  suffering  of 
his  people.  Manya  was  in  school,  in  the  hands  of  narrow 
and  incompetent  teachers,  teachers  selected  for  their 
political  views.  Kolya's  turn  would  soon  come.  After  that, 
so  ran  the  letters,  his  children  would  have  the  choice  be 
tween  becoming  power-seeking  sycophants  of  the  govern 
ment,  and  going,  as  he  had  gone,  into  battle  with  it,  know 
ing  beforehand  of  their  certain  defeat.  He  could  not  take 
them  away  from  it  —  yet.  But  he  realized,  he  said,  that 
each  day,  besides  giving  to  him  its  measure  of  sorrow, 
brought  a  little  nearer  the  fulfillment  of  his  new  dream. 
He  was  beginning  to  study  English. 

The  years  marched  on.  The  square  envelopes  came  less 
often,  but  they  came,  still  full  of  their  old-time  warmth  for 
us  —  full,  too,  of  increasing  enmity  toward  the  country 
which  we  had  left.  Manya  had  gone  to  Petrograd  to  attend 
women's  'courses.'  Two  years  later  Kolya  followed  her, 
and  entered  the  University  in  the  same  city  at  the  time  I 
was  enrolled  in  mine.  And  when,  a  care-free  sophomore,  I 
was  working  off  surplus  energy  in  basket-ball  and  dramat 
ics,  a  new  alarm  crept  into  Babanchik's  letters.  Manya 
and  Kolya  were  becoming  involved  in  the  revolutionary 
movement. 

It  is  hard,  in  these  clean  war  days,  to  remember  the 
murky  chaos  of  the  Russia  of  1904-06.  If  a  revolution 
could  have  come  at  all,  it  would  have  come  in  those  years, 
and  it  would  have  been  led  by  students.  The  younger 
minds  were  afire  with  visions  of  freedom,  —  irrepressible 


BABANCHIK  197 

combinations  of  deep  conviction  and  the  ardor  of  youth, — 
visions  which  took  no  cognizance  of  the  wide  and  weary 
space  which  lies  between  desire  and  accomplishment. 
Class-rooms  were  hotbeds  of  revolutionary  plots,  —  mad, 
illogical,  glorious  plots,  —  for  which  their  authors,  usually 
still  in  their  teens,  paid  so  heavily.  Too  heavily,  for  the 
government,  alarmed,  was  losing  its  head  a  bit. 

The  heart  of  Babanchik  beat  fearfully.  'I  am  proud  of 
the  trend  of  their  convictions,'  he  wrote,  'but  sometimes 
I  am  a  little  afraid.  They  can  so  easily  be  led  into  a  spec 
tacular  prank,  a  bit  of  mischief  for  which  the  government 
might  take  it  into  its  head  to  punish  them  too  harshly. 
And  though  we  have  all  become  accustomed  to  that  sort  of 
thing,  it  would  hurt  me  sorely  to  have  them  spend  two  or 
three  months  in  prison.' 

He  conjectured  mildly.  There  was  news  one  day,  in 
our  American  newspapers,  of  the  attempted  assassination 
of  a  Petrograd  official.  We  passed  it  by  —  attempted  as 
sassinations  were  no  rare  events  just  then  —  until  the  next 
letter  came  from  Babanchik,  a  letter  of  two  brief  para 
graphs.  Both  Many  a  and  Kolya  were  implicated  in  the 
crime.  Many  a  had  waved  her  handkerchief  from  a  win 
dow  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  official's  residence; 
Kolya  had  passed  the  signal  to  twenty  fellow  conspirators. 
All  had  been  caught  and  all  had  confessed.  The  official  was 
unhurt  and  there  was  hope  of  a  light  sentence.  Still  —  the 
two  or  three  months  of  prison  lengthened  into  a  prospective 
two  or  three  years. 

Once  more  he  conjectured  mildly.  Manya  was  sentenced 
to  be  hanged.  Kolya,  because  of  extreme  youth,  was  pun 
ished  by  life-imprisonment.  We  read  the  story  of  it,  scarce 
believing,  page  after  anguished  page  in  a  handwriting  we 
did  not  recognize.  We  never  knew  —  no  one  ever  did  know, 
save  Babanchik  himself  —  all  that  went  after  that.  His 


198  BABANCHIK 

letters  no  longer  came  regularly,  and,  when  they  did  come, 
were  so  incoherent  with  rage  and  despair  that  we  gathered 
little  information  from  them.  We  learned,  however,  that 
by  some  superhuman  means  he  had  obtained  a  stay  in  the 
execution  of  the  sentence,  had  taken  a  leave  of  absence 
from  his  office  in  Tiflis,  had  called  in  all  the  money  which 
he  had  loaned,  borrowed  what  additional  money  he  could, 
and  had  gone  to  Petrograd.  At  the  end  of  eighteen  months 
there  was  a  new  trial,  and  we  were  left  to  guess  of  much  that 
went  between. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  guess,  in  part.  His  way  to  that 
new  trial  had  lain  along  the  ways  of  personal  influence, 
*and  the  men  who  possessed  that  influence  were  the  officials 
whom  all  his  life  he  had  hated  and  who  knew  him  only  as 
one  'not  to  be  depended  upon.'  Could  he  have  abandoned 
to  their  fate  the  twenty  whom  he  did  not  even  know, 
and  worked  for  his  children  alone,  his  task  would  have 
been  less  difficult;  but  then  he  would  not  have  been 
Babanchik. 

So  for  eighteen  months  he  worked;  seeking  audience  in 
the  studies  of  his  enemies,  humbling  himself  before  their 
insolent  eyes,  accepting  from  them  what  taunts  they  chose 
to  give,  holding  in  calm  control  the  hot  temper  which  was 
hourly  made  less  manageable  by  the  strain  under  which 
he  lived,  pleading  where  he  longed  to  curse,  smiling  where 
he  would  kill  —  and  knowing,  with  a  knowledge  which 
made  all  these  things  possible,  that  a  careless  word  on  his 
part  would  take  forever  from  twenty -two  youngsters  the 
one  hope  to  which  they  clung.  And  so  he  accomplished 
the  inconceivable.  Somehow  the  new  trial  was  held,  some 
how  the  twenty-two  sentences  were  made  lighter,  unbe 
lievably  lighter.  For  Manya  was  sent  into  a  far  province 
and  given  hard  labor  for  life,  and  Kolya  would  be  free  in 
ten  years.  But  what  those  eighteen  months  did  to  the 


BABANCHIK  199 

loving  big  soul  of  Babanchik  can  best  be  told  in  the  barely 
legible  words  of  the  letter  which  brought  us  the  news. 

*  It  has  finished  us  at  last,  this  country !   It  has  strangled 
my  children  and  torn  my  heart  to  shreds!    I  burn  with 
shame  at  the  thought  of  being  its  subject,  and  there  is  no 
wretchedness  which  I  hold  too  great  for  it,  no  plague  which 
I  would  not  send  upon  it  if  I  could !  I  long  to  take  the  first 
steamer  away  from  it.' 

But  he  had  his  lost  fortune  to  recover  before  he  could  go. 
There  were  his  debts,  too;  and  the  children  needed  money, 
even  in  prison.  He  went  back  to  his  work  with  redoubled 
energy.  But  as  he  fought  for  the  money  which  would  bring 
him  to  America,  he  found  himself  fighting  against  a  new 
enemy.  The  splendid  body  had  not  been  able  to  with 
stand  the  ravages  upon  his  mind;  he  remembered  suddenly 
that  he  was  nearly  seventy.  He  spoke  little  of  this,  - 
perhaps  he  would  not  believe  it,  quite,  —  but  there  was 
dejection  in  every  word  he  wrote.  And  we  began  to  wonder 
whether  we  should  ever  see  our  Babanchik  again. 

Yet  in  the  winter  of  1913  he  came  to  us,  a  tired  and 
feeble  old  man.  There  was  a  burned-out  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  his  wrinkled  pongee  suit  hung  limp  from  stooping 
shoulders.  The  journey  across  Siberia  had  been  hard,  that 
across  the  Pacific  still  more  trying;  there  had  been  an 
alarming  wireless  from  the  nurse  who  accompanied  him. 
But  he  reached  us,  and  as  I  remember  the  sound  of  his 
laugh  on  that  first  day  twenty  years  ago,  so  shall  I  never 
forget  the  ineffable  happiness  in  his  face  when  he  stood,  a 
few  days  after  his  coming,  and  looked  out  over  our  sunlit 
valley. 

*  Peace/  he  said,  'and  joy.   And  the  end  of  Russia  for 
ever.  God  has  been  good.' 

He  built  for  himself  a  tiny  bungalow  in  a  corner  of  our 
garden,  —  one  that  could  be  moved  when  Kolya  should 


900  BABANCHIK 

have  come  to  him,  —  and  was  soon  deeply  engrossed  in  the 
simple  tasks  in  which  erstwhile  busy  men  sometimes  find 
such  keen  delight.  All  day  long  he  spaded  and  raked  and 
planted,  wrote  letters  home,  and  went  on  ever-lengthening 
walks;  but  evening  brought  him  to  our  living-room  where, 
beside  the  humming  samovar,  we  swung  the  conversation 
round  to  his  wild  Caucasian  tales. 

The  stories  he  told  were  not  new;  we  had  heard  them  all 
many  times  before.  Accounts  of  his  own  trips  in  pathless 
mountains,  adventures  of  the  danger-loving  Georgians, 
legends  of  his  own  people,  the  Armenians  —  they  had  lost 
not  a  shade  of  their  interest  in  the  years  which  had  gone 
since  those  other  winter  evenings,  when  the  sea  raged  just 
beyond  the  pasture-bars  and  made  us  crowd  close  to  the 
fireplace  and  to  him.  Often,  too,  he  talked  of  his  children, 
but  always  it  was  of  their  life  before  Manya  had  waved 
her  handkerchief  from  a  window.  Only  of  Russia  itself 
he  would  not  speak,  nor  would  he  read  our  Russian  news 
papers. 

'Let  her  be,'  he  once  said,  'the  vampire!  I  ask  only  to 
forget.* 

And  we  thought  that  he  did  forget,  for  the  months 
brought  to  him  an  ever-deepening  contentment.  His 
shoulders  were  squaring  themselves  into  old  accustomed 
lines,  the  illness  which  had  menaced  gave  no  sign.  Spring 
found  him  searching  for  a  plot  of  land  which  would  be  his 
own,  for  Kolya  had  but  two  more  years  to  serve. 

in 

And  then,  in  the  summer,  came  the  war. 
We  translated  the  news  to  Babanchik  —  he  had  never 
finished  learning  his  English.  A  smile  twisted  his  mouth. 
'Retribution!'  he  said;  and  there  was  something  very 


BABANCHIK  201 

dreadful  in  his  uplifted  hand.  'I  pray  that  Germany  will 
destroy  all  Russia.' 

We  turned  upon  him  in  indignation.  Under  our  accusing 
eyes  his  arm  came  down  and  hung  limp  by  his  side.  He 
swung  on  his  heel  and  left  us,  muttering  as  he  went,  — 

*  Nothing  but  German  shells  will  ever  break  down  her 
prisons.' 

There  followed  the  weeks  and  months  of  tense  living. 
The  Russian  papers  were  filled  with  opportunities  for  the 
new  work;  names  of  old  friends  appeared  in  committee 
lists.  As  for  us,  we  could  but  talk  of  it  endlessly,  and  dream 
of  it,  wait  for  the  morning  paper,  and  talk  again.  We  still 
saw  Babanchik  every  day,  but,  every  day,  he  mattered 
less.  We  could,  and  did,  accept  without  comment  his 
attitude  toward  the  country  which  still  held  our  affection, 
but,  somehow,  we  had  lost  interest  in  his  stories. 

The  war  went  on.  The  enemy  was  halted  before  Paris ;  the 
Russians  swarmed  over  Prussia  and  were  promptly  driven 
back,  far  over  their  own  boundary.  Riga  began  to  figure 
in  the  dispatches,  and  life  seemed  a  solemn  thing  —  so 
solemn  that  we  had  no  time  at  all  for  noticing  that  some 
thing  was  very  much  amiss  with  Babanchik,  until  he  said 
one  evening,  diffidently,  — 

'If  you  could  ask  your  doctor  to  stop  in  —  some  day.' 

We  stared  at  him  curiously.  Why  did  he  have  that 
ghastly  look  about  him?  He  was  perfectly  well  only  the 
day  before  —  or  was  it  last  week  —  or  was  it  a  month 
ago?  When  was  it  that  we  had  really  looked  at  him?  What 
had  checked  so  suddenly  the  straightening  of  his  shoul 
ders?  We  could  not  say.  But  we  were  vaguely  ashamed. 

The  doctor  was  terse  and  explicit. 

'There  is  no  thing  wrong,  chronically ,  save  a  general  hard 
ening  of  the  arteries  and  a  very  high  blood-pressure.  He 
must  have  had  bad  news  recently,  a  sorrow  of  some  sort.' 


202  BABANCHTK 

*  No  thing  new,'  I  contradicted.  'He  has  been  perfectly 
happy  until  now.' 

'The  war  perhaps?  or  Russian  reverses? ' 

'Oh/  I  answered  lightly,  'he  cares  nothing  for  the  war, 
and  Russian  reverses  would  cause  him  no  sorrow.' 

The  doctor  left  no  medicine. 

'Keep  him  amused,'  he  ordered,  'and  don't  let  him  grow 
excited.  That  is  the  only  remedy.' 

Keep  him  amused!  With  no  thought  in  our  minds,  no 
word  on  our  tongues  which  did  not  deal  with  the  war,  the 
war  of  which  he  never  spoke,  with  which  he  had  no  concern ! 

It  was  the  youngest  brother  who  broke  through  our 
quandary. 

'  I  think  we  have  all  been  blind  —  and  stupid !  Baban- 
chik  never  asks  for  war  news.  But  why  does  he  always  hap 
pen  to  be  about  when  the  paper  comes  in  the  morning? 
Why  does  he  never  change  the  subject  as  long  as  we  talk 
of  the  battles?  Have  n't  you  seen  the  embarrassed  look  on 
his  face  when  Germany  claims  victory?  And  why  did  n't 
he  need  the  doctor  until  Warsaw  was  endangered?' 

Thus  did  we  chance  upon  the  truth.  Though  even  then 
we  were  not  certain  —  not  until  a  letter,  six  months  de 
layed,  came  to  him  from  Kolya.  Babanchik's  hands  shook 
when  he  laid  it  down. 

'The  little  rat!  What  do  you  think  he  has  done?  He  has 
sent  a  petition  to  the  Tsar,  the  Tsar  himself!  To  beg  to  be 
released  from  prison  that  he  may  join  the  army.  He  prom 
ises  to  go  to  the  most  dangerous  position,  to  do  the  hardest 
work,  if  the  Tsar  will  only  set  him  free  and  let  him  fight. 
The  blessed  little  rat!' 

'Fight?'  I  asked,  and  looked  Babanchik  straight  in  the 
face,  '  fight  for  Russia?' 

The  embarrassed  look  came  into  his  eyes.  But,  even 
then,  he  did  not  at  once  capitulate. 


BABANCHIK  203 

'O  my  dear,'  he  replied,  *  youth  forgets  so  easily!' 

After  that  it  was  not  difficult  to  keep  him  amused.  But 
to  keep  him  from  growing  excited  was  not  a  task  for  human 
minds.  Already  he  was  fighting  with  Kolya.  At  night  he 
lay  awake,  gleefully  devising  a  thousand  sly  schemes 
whereby,  single-handed,  Kolya  should  take  captive  a  hun 
dred  Germans;  the  days  he  spent  in  filling  his  letters  to  the 
boy  with  a  detailed  description  of  these  schemes.  Each 
morning  we  were  introduced  to  marvels  of  unheard-of  strat 
egy,  and  called  upon  to  translate  from  the  newspaper  every 
word  of  the  long  and  conflicting  dispatches.  He  was  for 
getting  to  eat,  he  had  no  time  for  exercise.  An  alarming 
shortness  of  breath  followed,  and  we  sent  for  the  doctor 
again.  The  latter's  visit  was  short,  his  opinion  no  less  so :  — 

4  If  he  continues  to  live  at  this  tension  he  will  not  last 
until  winter.  Keep  him  quiet.' 

And  he  left  some  pills. 

And  then  came  another  letter  from  Kolya.  I  stepped 
into  Babanchik's  room  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  read  it 
and  found  him  at  his  open  window,  staring  out  at  the  sky. 
He  brushed  his  hands  across  his  eyes  before  he  turned  and 
held  out  the  letter  to  me. 

'Read  it,  my  dear.' 

The  uneven  round  handwriting  was  pathetically  remi 
niscent  of  the  letters  which  used  to  deal  with  ducks  and 
puppies,  and  there  was  boyish  heartbreak  in  every  word  of 
the  curt,  matter-of-fact  sentences.  Kolya's  petition  had 
not  been  granted. 

'And  now,  father,'  the  letter  ran  on,  'you  will  have  to 
come  back.  We  are  the  men  of  our  family.  And,  since  the 
Tsar  has  decided  that  I  must  not  help,  the  honor  of  that 
family  rests  with  you.  For,  if  you  fail,  I  also  fail.' 

I  looked  up  over  the  page.  What  could  he  do,  a  sick  old 
man,  in  a  country  which  was  calling  forth  the  finest  of  its 


204  BABANCfflK 

young  strength?    He  answered  my  unspoken  question, 
hastily. 

4 There  is  much  for  me.  The  wounded  are  coming  home; 
I  could  read  to  them  in  the  hospitals,  and  tell  stories  — 
you  know  how  well  I  tell  stories.  And  I  can  count  cars  — 
that  is  the  logical  work  for  one  who  had  been  so  long  with 
the  road.  Right  in  Tiflis  I  can  count  them,  —  supply- 
trains  go  out  from  there,  —  and  release  a  younger  man  for 
the  front.  Will  you  get  me  a  schedule  of  the  sailings  of 
Japanese  steamers,  my  dear? ' 

So  came  his  decision.  At  dinner-time  he  could  not  eat. 
Morning  found  him  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  Out  of 
his  meagre  knowledge  of  English  he  was  trying  to  decipher 
the  flaming  headlines.  He  waved  away  the  suggestion  of 
breakfast.  Food  interfered  with  his  breathing,  he  said;  but 
would  we  not  bring  in  his  trunks  and  suitcases?  By  after 
noon  he  was  shivering,  and  the  tea  I  made  for  him  failed 
to  warm  his  hands.  And  once  more  we  called  the  doctor. 

He  fought  with  all  the  strength  which  was  left  him,  our 
gentle  Babanchik,  fought  with  tears  of  helpless  fury  cours 
ing  down  his  face,  when  we  took  him  from  the  chaos  of  his 
packing  and  put  him  to  bed.  And  a  hard  three  months 
began  for  all  of  us. 

It  was  a  cold  and  cheerless  autumn  of  early  rains.  The 
doctor  came  every  day.  And  every  day  I  sat  at  the  bed 
side,  translating  to  him  Babanchik's  entreaties  and  com 
mands.  I  had  procured  for  him  the  schedule  of  Japanese 
steamers,  and  he  had  marked  the  dates  of  their  sailing  with 
red  ink. 

'Tell  him/  he  would  say,  his  unsteady  forefinger  on  the 
first  of  these,  'that  I  must  be  fit  for  travel  by  this  date. 
Tell  him  to  give  me  more  medicine  —  I  shall  take  two  pills 
every  half  hour.  Tell  him  I  cannot  wait.' 


BABANCHIK  205 

And  again,  two  or  three  days  later,  his  finger  back  on 
the  page,  — 

*  There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  catch  this  boat  now.   But 
tell  him  that  the  next  one  goes  two  weeks  later.  Surely  he 
can  cure  me  in  two  weeks;  tell  him  that  that's  fourteen 
days.' 

The  weeks  crept  by  and,  one  after  another,  the  Japanese 
steamers  sailed  without  him;  but  in  his  mind,  which  was 
slowly  losing  its  clearness,  a  new  hope  dawned  each  day. 
I  began  to  dread  the  hours  beside  his  bed.  It  was  hard  to 
listen  to  the  plans  for  his  work  which,  under  the  stress  of 
mounting  fever,  often  trailed  off  to  incoherent  muttering, 
and  to  watch  the  thin  profile  of  his  face  showing  an  ever 
sharper  line  against  the  pillow;  hard  to  follow  the  doctor 
to  his  car  and  hear  his  passionless,  hopeless  words;  harder 
still  to  go  back  and  face  the  crazily  bright  eyes  of  Baban- 
chik  and,  in  response  to  his  questions,  lie  cheerfully  and  so 
extravagantly  that  it  seemed  that  only  a  madman  could 
believe. 

Yet  he  believed.  For,  one  morning,  I  found  him  ruling  a 
sheet  of  paper  on  a  lapboard  —  he  had  fumed  until  the 
nurse  had  given  him  his  pen.  The  vertical  lines  cut  un 
steadily  across  the  page,  and  at  the  top  of  the  columns  he 
had  written:  — 

*  Date/  —  *  Car    Number.'  —  '  Destination.'  —  *  Cargo.' 
'You  see,  my  dear,'  he  explained  eagerly,  *  there  will  be 

a  great  deal  of  purely  mechanical  work,  such  as  this,  to 
be  done,  and  much  of  it  I  can  do  beforehand.  For  I  shall 
be  too  busy,  in  Tiflis,  and  I  cannot  expect  an  assistant 
at  this  time.' 

On  that  day  I  did  not  go  back  to  his  room.  The  doctor's 
words  had  been  fewer  than  usual,  and  there  are  times  when 
one  does  not  lie. 


206  BABANCHIK 

But,  before  bedtime,  seeing  his  light  burning,  I  tiptoed 
in.  He  stared  dully. 

'You  have  been  talking  long  —  I  fell  asleep  waiting. 
And  I  wanted  you  to  tell  your  doctor  that  I  am  losing  all 
patience.  If  he  cannot  make  me  well  enough  to  go  at  once, 
I  shall  find  some  other  way  to  go  —  without  his  help. 
Keeping  me  in  a  warm  room,  the  rain  shut  out,  while  my 
boys  are  lying  in  trenches!  When  I  could  be  counting 
cars — '  His  breath  failed  him  and  he  closed  his  eyes. 
Only  when  I  looked  back  at  him,  with  my  hand  on  the 
door-knob,  did  he  finish  the  sentence  —  'for  Russia/ 

When  again  I  saw  him  he  was  neither  old  nor  feeble  nor 
ill.  By  some  untold  magic  he  had  become  the  undaun table 
Babanchik  of  twenty  years  ago.  Only,  his  pongee  suit 
had  been  very  carefully  pressed,  and  this,  together  with 
his  unsmiling  mouth,  made  him  look  strange  —  strange  and 
a  little  forbidding,  as  if  the  way  for  which  he  had  been 
searching  was -one  with  which  we  could  have  no  concern. 
And,  presently,  one  of  the  Japanese  steamers  was  taking 
him  back  to  Russia. 


ROSITA 

ELLEN   MACKUBIN 

THERE  are  secrets  which  are  never  told,  mysteries  which 
are  never  revealed,  and  questions  which  are  never  an 
swered,  even  nowadays,  when  the  press  and. the  police  so 
vigorously  supplement  the  public  and  private  interest  in 
everybody's  affairs.  It  is  another  evidence  of  the  superior 
force  of  the  natural  human  instincts  to  the  mechanism  of 
civilization,  that  in  country  villages  or  isolated  garrisons, 
unpermeated  by  press  or  police,  such  phenomena  are  most 
rare.  Yet  even  there  they  exist. 

Fort  Lawrence  is  a  three-company  post,  possessing  no 
neighbor,  except  a  few  scattered  ranches,  within  a  radius 
of  several  hundred  miles.  Thus  thrown  upon  their  own  re 
sources  for  amusement,  the  garrison's  knowledge  of  one 
another's  business  is  exhaustive,  and  events  in  these  dull, 
peaceful  days  are  picked  as  bare  of  detail  as  any  bone  ac 
quired  by  some  long-hungry  dog.  Yet  at  Lawrence  oc 
curred  the  following  events,  the  inner  relation  of  whose  out 
ward  facts  has  never  been  fully  understood. 

A  couple  of  years  ago,  Lawrence  had  been  occupied  for 
many  months  by  three  companies  from  the  -  — th  Cav 
alry,  though  the  chances  of  army  promotion  had  recently 
brought  it  a  commanding  officer  from  another  regiment. 
Major  Pryor,  a  middle-aged  man,  who  sheltered  shyness 
behind  a  rampart  of  sternness,  became  immediately  un 
popular  by  tightening  the  reins  of  government,  which  his 
predecessor  had  held  somewhat  slackly.  But  the  garrison 
and  its  feminine  belongings  were  inclined  to  forgive  him 
when  they  perceived  that  he  had  fallen  seriously  in  love 


208  ROSITA 

with  Rosita.  Now,  nobody  had  ever  considered  Rosita 
seriously  before;  not  even  her  father,  old  Lawless  the  post- 
trader,  in  regard  to  whom  the  suspicion  that  he  was  a  ras 
cal  had  been  condoned  by  the  certainty  that  he  was  the 
jolliest  of  companions. 

Old  Lawless  maintained  complete  silence  as  to  his  past; 
and  as  Rosita's  mother  formed  part  of  that  doubtful  dark 
ness  when  he,  and  his  child,  and  his  stock  in  trade  installed 
themselves  at  Lawrence,  he  had  never  been  heard  to  refer 
to  her.  That  she  had  belonged  to  some  mixed  breed,  part 
Spanish,  part  Indian,  was,  however,  written  on  each 
feature  of  her  daughter's  body  and  mind  —  if  Rosita  could 
be  said  to  have  a  mind. 

'  Every  woman,  savage  or  civilized,  will  love  some  day  to 
her  own  sorrow,'  her  father  had  declared,  with  a  cynical 
laugh.  'But  Rosita's  future  is  tolerably  safe.  Chocolate 
bonbons  are  her  ruling  passion,  and  as  she  has  the  digestion 
of  an  ostrich,  many  years  will  elapse  before  she  is  likely  to 
suffer  for  her  devotion!' 

She  was  exceedingly  pretty,  with  the  beauty  of  bright 
eyes,  lithe  figure,  and  a  complexion  so  transparent  that 
the  most  enthusiastic  admirer  of  fairness  would  not  have 
wished  her  less  dusky.  Since  she  was  fifteen  she  had  held 
gay  and  undisputed  sway  among  the  younger  officers;  for 
Lawrence  was  so  distant  a  post  that  feminine  visitors  were 
seldom  seen  there,  and  in  those  days  the  garrison  families 
possessed  only  daughters  in  the  nursery.  The  fame  of  her 
pretty  looks  and  ways  had  become  widespread  among  the 
frontier  forts;  yet  it  was  noticeable  that  her  admirers,  while 
ransacking  the  realms  of  nature  in  eulogy  of  this  gazelle, 
this  kitten,  this  lark,  never  called  her  an  angel,  or  even 
ascended  high  enough  in  the  spiritual  scale  to  compare  her 
to  a  fairy,  though  there  was  nothing  known  of  her  at  which 
the  sternest  army  matron  could  take  umbrage.  She  was  as 


ROSITA  209 

ignorant  of  evil  as  any  of  the  wild  creatures  with  whose 
names  she  had  been  rebaptized,  and  Lawless  kept  a  keen 
though  seemingly  careless  eye  upon  her  amusements. 

With  this  girl  Duncan  Pryor  did  not  flirt.  Plain,  prosaic, 
and  forty,  he  loved  her;  while  Rosita,  instinctively  discern 
ing  the  difference  between  his  behavior  and  that  of  her 
other  admirers,  appeared  rather  repelled  than  gratified  — 
an  attitude  which  became  more  obvious  the  more  her 
father  encouraged  this  serious  suitor,  and  was  presently  ex 
plained,  to  the  increasing  interest  of  the  spectators  of  the 
little  drama,  by  the  discovery  that  Rosita  had  developed 
another  love  than  that  for  chocolates,  and  one  which  she 
concealed  as  slightly. 

Gerald  Breton,  or  *  Jerry/  as  he  was  familiarly  known, 
had,  upon  his  first  coming  to  Lawrence,  devoted  to  Rosita's 
society  every  moment  which  he  could  spare  from  military 
duties  that  were  not  numerous;  but  in  so  doing  he  only 
fulfilled  the  manifest  destiny  of  all  his  compeers  at  the  post. 
He  was  a  big,  fair  young  fellow,  with  jovial  Irish  blood  in 
his  veins,  and  a  smile  which  was  perhaps  more  eloquent 
than  he  knew.  Certainly,  when  he  returned  from  a  two 
months'  *  leave,'  he  announced  his  engagement  to  the  most 
adorable  of  women,  met  and  won  during  his  absence,  with 
a  frank  assurance  of  congratulation  which  bespoke  a  con 
science  void  of  reproach. 

Neither  did  Rosita  reproach  him.  She  preferred  him  to 
his  brethren  in  a  manner  flattering  to  masculine  vanity. 
And  Jerry,  having  placed  the  colors  of  his  fiancee  in  his 
helmet,  did  not  hesitate  to  enjoy  such  amusement  as  was 
provided  for  him  in  a  post  that  would  have  been  dull  with 
out  Rosita.  She  was  comrade  as  charmingly  as  coquette. 
She  rode  hurdle-races,  and  shot  at  targets,  and  smoked 
cigarettes,  as  keenly  as  Jerry  himself,  while  she  could  sing 
a  love-song  to  her  guitar,  or  dance  to  her  castanets,  with 

15 


210  ROSITA 

a  grace  and  a  fervor  that  no  music-hall  star  of  a  much- 
regretted  civilization  could  surpass. 

How  soon  Jerry  guessed  what  it  was  that  looked  at  him 
from  under  her  long  lashes,  which  was  absent  when  she 
bestowed  her  fearless  glances  upon  the  other  officers,  is  not 
made  quite  plain  to  his  conscience  yet .  B  u t  he  was  promptly 
aware  of  Major  Pryor's  determination  to  prevent  him  from 
keeping  engagements  which  brought  him  into  the  society  of 
Rosita.  No  position  of  authority  lends  itself  so  readily  to 
petty  tyranny  as  that  of  a  post-commander,  when  the 
incumbent  is  thus  disposed;  and  that  Pryor  was  thus  dis 
posed  toward  Lieutenant  Breton,  not  only  the  victim,  but 
Rosita  particularly,  and  the  garrison  generally,  quickly 
perceived.  The  adjutant,  indeed,  though  a  submissive  per 
son,  ventured  an  occasional  remonstrance  concerning 
orders  manifestly  over-exacting,  but  won  nothing  by  his 
presumption. 

Was  picnic  or  dinner  arranged,  at  the  last  moment  an 
orderly  appeared,  presenting  the  major's  compliments  and 
a  special  detail  which  required  Lieutenant  Breton's  atten 
tion.  When  a  much-talked-of  fishing  expedition,  involving 
several  nights'  camping,  was  about  to  set  forth,  Jerry  was 
appointed  to  the  escort  of  some  wagons  just  starting  en 
route  to  the  nearest  river- town  for  supplies;  while  reproofs, 
irritably  delivered  and  flagrantly  undeserved,  were  a  daily 
occurrence.  Rosita's  wrath,  the  jocular  condolences  of  his 
chums,  and  the  no  less  evident  though  wordless  sympathy 
of  his  superiors  added  fuel  to  the  smouldering  fire  of  Jerry's 
resentment.  Upon  a  certain  radiant  June  afternoon  this 
fire  blazed. 

A  full-dress  parade  had  been  commanded,  for  the  sole 
purpose,  it  was  growled,  of  giving  scope  to  the  major's 
restless  energies.  Some  trifling  fault  in  the  demeanor  of 
Jerry's  troop  brought  on  him  a  scathing  rebuke  in  the 


ROSITA  211 

presence  of  his  men,  of  his  comrades,  and  of  the  ladies  who 
had  gathered  to  watch  such  small  display  of  military  pomp 
as  their  position  permitted.  Temper  conquered  discipline. 
Instead  of  the  silent  salute  which  was  his  duty,  Lieutenant 
Breton  began  an  angry  expostulation,  and  was  sternly 
ordered  to  his  quarters,  under  arrest  for  disrespect  to  the 
commanding  officer. 

Lawrence  reveled  in  its  sensation  across  that  evening's 
supper-tables.  Pryor  was  right,  of  course:  Jerry  had  been 
guilty  of  grave  misbehavior  before  the  whole  garrison. 
Yet  love  of  justice  is  strong,  even  in  the  strictest  enforcer 
of  discipline — when  the  enforcer  is  Anglo-Saxon.  If  Jerry 
should  refuse  to  apologize,  or  if  Pryor  should  refuse  to  be 
thus  appeased,  the  two  captains  resolved  that  private 
statements  of  the  case  should  go  to  Washington  before 
further  complications  should  arise  for  the  victim  of  a  per 
sonal  prejudice. 

Jerry,  however,  in  the  solitary  confinement  of  his  own 
sitting-room,  knew  nothing  of  these  plans,  and  faced  a 
gloomy  future  through  an  infuriating  present.  Dear  as  his 
career  was  to  him,  he  determined  to  sacrifice  it  rather  than 
apologize  to  a  man  who,  whatever  his  rank,  was  egregiously 
wrong.  But  even  if  his  resignation  were  accepted  under  the 
circumstances  of  his  breach  of  discipline,  and  he  escaped 
court-martial,  how  could  he  justify  to  his  home  people  the 
enmity  of  his  commanding  officer?  Only  by  a  story  regard 
ing  its  cause  which  he  should  feel  himself  a  cad  in  the  telling. 
And  would  his  proud  sweetheart  accept  the  allegiance  of 
the  hero  of  such  a  story  as  unstained  and  unshaken? 

When  his  wrath  had  cooled  and  his  solitude  remained 
undisturbed,  Jerry  began  to  feel  forsaken  as  well  as  ill  used. 
Tired  of  the  perpetual  turning  which  pacing  his  tiny  quar 
ters  involved,  he  dropped  disconsolately  into  a  chair,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 


212  ROSITA 

There  was  a  rustle  of  petticoats,  and,  with  dismayed 
assurance,  he  lifted  his  head.  Yes,  it  was  she,  the  pretty 
cause  of  his  troubles,  gazing  at  him  with  eyes  that  glowed 
through  tears. 

'Rosita!'  he  muttered,  in  a  tone  instinctively  lowered, 
even  in  his  surprise,  for  the  sentry  posted  outside  his  door 
was  probably  within  hearing.  *  How  did  you  get  here? ' 

'By  that  window,'  she  answered,  her  white  teeth  gleam 
ing  as  she  nodded  toward  an  open  window  that  looked  upon 
a  rear  veranda  —  a  veranda  which  extended  the  length  of 
'officers'  row,'  where  the  post-trader  had  rented  an  unused 
set  of  quarters. 

Suddenly  she  sank  to  her  knees  beside  his  chair,  clasping 
both  hands  over  one  of  his. 

'He  is  a  wicked  man!'  she  cried  passionately.  'I  hate 
him!' 

Jerry  rose  hurriedly,  lifting  her  as  he  did  so. 

'Speak  lower.   You  should  not  have  come,'  he  said. 

'Why  should  n't  I  come?'  Rosita  faltered,  tears  on  her 
long  lashes,  her  lips  quivering  like  a  child's.  '  You  are  alone 
and  in  trouble.' 

'Beastly  trouble!  It  is  awfully  kind  of  you.  By  Jove!' 
he  exclaimed,  his  outraged  sense  of  propriety  yielding  place 
to  a  yet  more  wounded  sense  of  his  friends'  desertion  in 
this  time  of  need;  'you  are  the  only  one  of  the  lot  who  cares 
what  happens  to  any  fellow  after  he  is  down.' 

'It  is  n't  "any  fellow."  I  care  for  you,  Jerry,' she  mur 
mured  wistfully.  'But  he  cannot  hurt  you,  really?  Just 
for  to-night?' 

'To-night!'  he  repeated,  while  discretion  fled  the  field, 
routed  by  the  rush  of  a  vision  of  the  probable  consequences 
of  his  wrongs  which  swept  over  his  soul.  'He  intends  to 
destroy  my  whole  career.  And  he  will  do  it,  too,  for  I  shall 
never  apologize  to  him ! ' 


ROSITA  213 

Sympathy  is  none  the  less  sweet  when  it  shines  in  bril 
liant  eyes,  and  he  was  not  much  more  than  a  boy  —  a  boy 
aghast  in  the  presence  of  his  first  trouble.  He  grew  elo 
quent  while  he  described  the  gloomy  future  which  Pryor's 
tyranny  stretched  before  him. 

'The  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  I  am  ruined  through  his 
confounded  jealousy*  — 

He  broke  off  his  peroration  abruptly,  coloring  hotly. 

'  You  shall  not  be  ruined !  It  is  for  my  sake  he  hates  you ! 
But  I  will  save  you ! '  she  panted. 

'Nonsense!'  he  exclaimed,  half  touched,  half  anxious. 
'You  cannot  get  rid  of  Pry  or;  and  as  I  cannot  remain  under 
his  command  without  apology,  I  must  resign  —  which  will 
mean  ruin  for  me/  he  ended,  with  almost  a  groan  of  de 
spondency. 

She  caught  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  her  breast,  to  her 
lips. 

'  Wait !  Trust  me ! '  she  cried,  running  to  the  open  window. 
'  He  shall  do  you  no  more  harm ! ' 

Jerry,  his  pulses  thrilling  to  those  trembling  kisses,  fol 
lowed  her. 

'Rosita!  Sweetest  —  truest'  —  he  gasped,  'you  must 
not  interfere!  This  matter  concerns  only  Pryor  and  me. 
I  forbid  you ! ' 

She  turned  when  she  had  crossed  the  low  ledge,  and 
flashed  a  smile  back  to  him  —  a  smile  which  both  bewild 
ered  and  repelled  him. 

'You  shall  forbid  me  anything  —  except  to  serve  you,' 
she  said,  and  vanished  among  the  shadows  of  the  veranda. 

For  an  instant  he  meditated  pursuit,  but  gave  it  up  as  he 
remembered  the  complications  which  would  ensue  should 
he  be  seen  in  apparent  attempt  to  evade  his  arrest. 

Rosita  was  a  dear  little  ignoramus,  embarrassingly  fond 
of  him,  he  told  himself,  grasping  at  his  usual  common  sense, 


214  ROSITA 

which  was  perplexed  by  vague  alarm.  Yet  surely  she  could 
intend  nothing  more  than  to  make  a  pretty  scene  as  special 
pleader  for  his  cause  with  Pryor  —  a  pleader  who,  unless 
that  officer  had  utterly  lost  dignity,  would  produce  no 
other  effect  than  to  embitter  the  jealousy  which  was  the 
foundation  of  this  persecution. 

Fort  Lawrence  goes  to  bed  early.  By  eleven  o'clock 
sleep  apparently  possessed  the  garrison,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  widely  scattered  sentinels  who  cried  the  hour. 
But  the  clear  calls  had  scarcely  died  upon  the  vast  sur 
rounding  stillness  of  the  prairie  night  when  they  were  suc 
ceeded  by  the  sharp,  unmistakable  report  of  a  pistol-shot. 

Jerry  Breton,  lounging,  half-awake,  beside  the  veranda 
window  of  his  sitting-room,  was  roused  to  full  conscious 
ness  and  a  pang  of  foreboding. 

The  report  came  from  a  path  which  skirted  the  rampart 
immediately  beneath  the  veranda,  at  a  point  where  the 
bluff  beyond  descended  so  abruptly  into  the  Yellowstone 
River,  hundreds  of  feet  below,  that  the  sentry  rarely  pa 
trolled  it,  ingress  or  egress  being  impossible  to  any  one  in  a 
sane  mood.  Jerry  sprang  down  the  veranda  steps,  assuring 
himself  that  there  might  be  a  dozen  comparatively  harmless 
reasons  for  the  shot,  and  that  his  terror  was  merely  night 
mare.  Yet  when  he  beheld  the  body  of  a  man  prostrate, 
face  forward,  across  the  path,  he  knew  him,  with  a  knowl 
edge  that  anticipated  sight.  Shrinkingly  he  bent  over  him, 
uttered  a  half -strangled  cry,  which  was  dismayed,  not  sur 
prised,  and  picked  up  a  pistol,  a  tiny  silver-mounted  toy, 
horribly  incongruous  beside  that  ghastly,  motionless  fig 
ure  —  a  dainty,  deadly  thing  that  Jerry  had  given  months 
before  to  the  'best  markswoman  in  the  Northwest.' 

There  was  a  swift  rush  of  footsteps  from  various  direc 
tions  :  the  sentry  to  whose  beat  this  stretch  of  rampart  be- 


ROSITA  215 

longed,  another  sentry  from  his  station  before  the  door  of 
Jerry's  quarters,  and  three  or  four  partly  clad  officers 
roused  out  of  their  slumbers. 

Jerry  stood  upright  —  a  slight,  erect  figure,  whose  sil 
houette  was  distinct  against  the  blue  moonlit  sky.  He 
swung  his  arm  above  his  head,  and  flung  the  pistol  far 
over  the  edge  of  the  bluff. 

The  next  instant  he  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd;  a 
tumult  of  exclamation  and  question  arose,  as  Pryor's  inan 
imate  body  was  recognized,  and  carefully  examined  for 
some  sign  of  life.  In  the  midst  of  the  tumult  he  leaned 
against  the  rampart,  neither  speaking  nor  apparently 
hearing,  until  Blount,  the  captain  of  his  troop,  laid  an  ad 
monitory  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

*  You  were  here  first  —  Don't  stare  like  an  idiot !  Tell 
us  what  you  saw.' 

'Is  he  dead?' 

'We  cannot  be  sure  until  the  surgeon  comes.  Did  you 
see  any  one?' 

Jerry  shuddered  visibly. 

'  I  saw  nobody ! ' 

'The  major  has  been  queer  lately,  poor  chap.  Perhaps 
he  shot  himself,'  Blount  suggested  eagerly. 

'Was  not  that  a  pistol  you  threw  away?'  another  officer 
asked  sharply. 

Jerry  lifted  his  eyes.  Those  familiar  faces  were  pale  and 
stern. 

'You  saw'  —  he  faltered. 

'Speak,  lad!'  Blount  entreated. 

'I  cannot  talk.  I  must  have  time  to  think/ 

'The  truth  does  n't  need  thinking.  It  requires  plain 
telling.' 

There  ensued  a  silence,  through  which  creaked  the  hur 
ried  approach  of  the  surgeon's  boots. 


216  ROSITA 

Jerry's  fair  head  drooped;  he  caught  uncertainly  at 
Blount's  arm. 

'I  have  nothing  to  say/  he  muttered  faintly. 

Blount,  who,  as  senior  captain,  succeeded  to  Pryor's 
command  in  case  of  that  officer's  death  or  incapacity, 
turned  from  his  young  subordinate. 

'Sergeant  Jackson,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  not  quite 
steady,  'take  Lieutenant  Breton  to  his  quarters.  You  will 
be  responsible  for  him  until  further  instructions ,'  Then  he 
knelt  beside  Pryor,  over  whom  the  surgeon  was  bending. 
'Is  there  life  in  him?'  he  asked. 

There  was  life  in  him  —  life  that  lingered  after  they  had 
carried  him  to  his  bed  and  his  wound  had  been  dressed; 
a  mere  spark  of  life,  which  might  flicker  out  at  any  moment, 
although,  the  major  being  a  healthy  man,  in  the  prime  of 
years,  it  might  yet  blaze  up  again  into  strength.  Such  was 
the  surgeon's  unchanging  report  during  the  next  two  days 
to  the  post,  where  horror  of  the  tragedy  in  its  midst  had 
silenced  gossip,  and  where  even  conjecture  held  its  breath. 

There  is  thus  much  resemblance  between  a  small  garri 
son  and  a  family,  that  the  befalling  of  a  calamity  to  one  of 
their  number  softens  all  judgments;  quarrels,  criticisms, 
envyings,  are  the  corrupted  fruit  of  a  too  brilliant  sun 
shine.  Pryor  had  been  unpopular,  but  only  kindness  was 
spoken  of  him  now  that  it  seemed  probable  that  he  lay 
dying.  If  there  was  a  manifest  desire,  especially  among 
the  ladies,  to  foster  a  suspicion  that  his  evident  wretched 
ness  had  led  him  to  attempt  suicide,  the  desire  merely 
expressed  their  hope  that  Jerry  Breton's  innocence  might 
be  proved,  in  spite  of  the  young  fellow's  stunned  passive- 
ness  and  his  strange  flinging  away  of  the  pistol. 

Proof  either  of  guilt  or  of  innocence  depended  vitally 
on  Pryor's  recovery,  as  no  inquiry  had  elicited  any  of  the 


ROSITA  217 

facts  which  preceded  the  catastrophe  of  that  night.  Shortly 
after  ten  o'clock  the  commanding  officer  had  passed  the 
sentry  for  a  solitary  stroll  along  the  rampart,  which  was  a 
daily  habit  with  him;  nobody  else  had  been  seen,  and 
nothing  unusual  had  been  heard  until  the  pistol-shot. 

Depression,  black  as  the  shadow  of  death  which  over 
hung  them,  possessed  the  little  post  which  was  wont  to  be 
so  cheery.  No  one  was  surprised  to  hear  that  Rcsita  had 
been  added  to  the  number  of  the  surgeon's  patients,  nor 
did  any  one  doubt  the  cause  of  the  nervous  collapse  from 
which  he  declared  her  to  be  suffering,  and  which  forced 
him  to  veto  Mrs.  Blount's  offer  of  a  visit  to  her.  Lawless, 
he  said,  had  miraculously  developed  into  the  most  perfect 
of  nurses,  and  Rosita,  with  the  tendency  to  delirium  that 
belongs  to  volatile  and  undisciplined  temperaments,  was 
better  off  under  his  undisturbed  attendance. 

Closely  confined  to  his  quarters,  Jerry  Breton  knew  noth 
ing  of  her  illness,  and  each  hour  of  her  silence,  after  he  be 
lieved  that  she  must  be  aware  of  his  position,  buried  deeper 
his  hope  that  she  would  confess  when  she  discovered  that 
he  had  assumed  the  suspicion  of  her  mad  crime.  With 
bitterness  he  reflected  that  the  devotion  of  so  fantastic  a 
creature  was  no  more  to  be  trusted  than  her  moral  prin 
ciples;  and  bound  though  he  felt  himself  to  shelter  her,  he 
yearned  for  the  happiness  and  honor  she  alone  could  restore 
to  him. 

Whether  Pryor  lived  or  died,  his  own  career  must  end  in 
a  darkness  whose  varying  degrees  seemed  to  Jerry  scarcely 
worth  remark.  This  story  of  treacherous  vengeance  would 
be  told  to  his  own  people,  and  to  the  woman  he  loved.  Oh, 
God !  How  his  soul  adored  her  purity,  her  pride,  the  girl 
ish  exaltation  for  which  he  had  used  to  profess  a  tender 
ridicule!  Had  he  been  cruelly  unjust  to  her,  and  to  those 
others  who  were  dear  to  him?  Yet  would  he  not  have  been 


218  ROSITA 

unutterably  base  had  he  crawled  to  safety  across  the  con 
demnation  of  Rosita,  whose  crime  had  resulted  from  mis 
guided  love  for  him? 

Like  most  of  his  compeers,  Jerry  had  a  character  which 
was  one  of  action  rather  than  of  thought.  In  the  sleepless 
thought  of  those  forty-eight  hours  his  boyishness  slipped 
from  him  forever,  and  he  attained  the  full  stature  of  his 
manhood  —  God  help  us !  —  as  most  of  humanity  does  so 
attain  in  the  forcing-house  of  suffering! 

Twilight  had  come  the  second  time  when  Captain 
Blount  knocked  at  the  door  of  Jerry's  quarters. 

*  I  think  the  lieutenant  is  asleep  —  and  it's  the  first  rest 
he  has  had,  sir '  —  Jackson  hesitated. 

*  I ' ve  news  for  him  that  he  will  like  better  than  sleeping ! 
His  arrest  is  over!'  Blount  cried,  entering. 

Jerry  lay  back,  unawakened,  in  the  only  armchair  the 
unluxurious  room  possessed.  Blount  stared  down  at  the 
haggard  young  face,  with  a  blending  of  affection  and  re 
sentment  which  made  a  very  complete  perplexity.  Not 
until  he  touched  the  sleeper's  shoulder  did  the  heavy  lids 
lift  slowly. 

'I've  nothing  to  say,'  Jerry  murmured  half  consciously. 

'I  am  sure  of  it,  you  donkey!  Pryor,  however,  has  said 
something,  and  the  whole  crowd  of  us  must  beg  your  par 
don,  though  you  have  yourself  to  blame  that  we  suspected 
you.' 

'Pryor  has  spoken?  What  does  he  say?' 

'The  surgeon  will  not  let  him  talk;  but  he  insisted  on 
hearing  who  was  accused,  and  he  acquitted  you  at  once. 
Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  confounded  quixotism 
kept  you  silent,  at  such  cost,  if,  as  seems  probable  from 
his  despondency,  he  attempted  his  own  life.' 

Jerry  frowned,  and  looked  away  into  the  gathering 
shadows. 


ROSITA  219 

'Despondent  is  he,  poor  chap?'  he  asked  presently. 

'Even  less  thankful  to  be  alive  than  you  seem  to  be  free 
again/ 

Jerry  sat  upright,  his  pale  face  flushing,  his  eyes  shining. 

'I?  Not  thankful?'  he  cried  in  a  voice  shaken  to  the 
verge  of  an  utter  breakdown.  '  I  have  been  in  hell  these  two 
days,  and  you  have  brought  me  out  —  but  —  but  —  go 
away,  Blount,  or  I  shall  make  a  fool  of  myself ! ' 

Lieutenant  Breton  was  breakfasting  late  the  next  morn 
ing,  when  Pryor's  orderly  appeared  with  an  immediate 
summons  to  the  commanding  officer's  presence,  War, 
armed  cap-a-pie,  sprang  into  existence  in  Jerry's  heart  at 
this  summons.  He  had  proved  Pry  or  capable  of  tyranny 
without  reason,  and  could  not  hope,  when  the  spirit  of  such 
a  man  had  been  as  cruelly  wounded  as  his  body,  that  he 
would  incline  to  mercy.  But  in  the  blessedness  of  his  own 
safety  he  forgave  Rosita  her  silence,  and,  while  aware  of 
the  perplexities  that  would  beset  him,  he  vowed  that  no 
admission  of  her  guilt  should  be  extorted  from  him. 

There  was,  however,  neither  wrath  nor  challenge  in  the 
hollow  eyes  which  confronted  him  when  he  stood  beside 
Pryor's  bed,  and  a  gaunt  hand  feebly  moved  across  the 
counterpane  toward  him. 

'You  are  a  fine  fellow,  Breton,'  the  major  murmured. 
'I  beg  your  pardon!' 

Jerry  dumbly  clasped  the  quivering  fingers. 

'They  have  told  me  that  you  flung  a  pistol  over  the 
bluffs,'  Pryor  continued  slowly.  'Of  course  I  know  whose 
pistol  it  was.  But  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  the  shoot 
ing  was  my  fault,  like  the  whole  affair.  I  provoked  her  with 
words  I  had  no  right  to  speak;  I  denied  her  the  mere  justice 
she  demanded.  Except  for  your  courage  I  should  have 
brought  disgrace  upon  her,  as  I  have  brought  death.' 


220  ROSITA 

'Death?  Rosita?' 

'She  died  last  night/ 

Jerry  dropped  into  a  chair.  Death!  Rosita!  —  a  crea 
ture  so  instinct  with  the  life  of  this  world  that  it  was  impos 
sible  to  conceive  her  in  the  life  of  which  death  is  the  portal. 

'  Did  she  —  '  He  shuddered. 

'No!  She  never  rallied  from  the  shock  of  that  night. 
Her  father  has  been  here  to  ask  me  to  forgive  the  dead. 
My  God !  I  shall  not  forgive  myself ! '  Pryor  cried,  with  an 
anguish  none  the  less  intense  for  the  faintness  of  the  voice 
which  uttered  it. 

Jerry  had  covered  his  face,  and  the  other  stared  enviously 
at  the  tears  that  slipped  through  his  fingers. 

'Time  is  up!'  the  surgeon  exclaimed  from  outside  the 
closed  door. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  wistfully. 

'I  have  deserved  no  favor  from  you,'  Pryor  muttered; 
'neither  is  it  for  my  sake  that  I  entreat  you  to  continue 
silent.  There  will  be  no  further  inquiry  into  the  matter,  as 
the  surgeon  tells  me  that  I  shall  recover.  S  the  garrison 
must  be  satisfied  only  with  conjecture  as  to  my  temporary 
madness  and  your  magnanimity.' 

'It  is  you  who  are  magnanimous!' 

'I  loved  her;  I  persecuted  her!  The  death  she  desired 
for  me  was  mercy  compared  to  the  life  which  is  all  the 
atonement  I  can  make  to  her  memory.' 

With  which  exceeding  bitter  whisper  Pryor  turned  him 
self  to  the  wall. 

Out  on  the  parade,  the  radiant  freshness  of  the  prairie 
morning  thrilled  Jerry's  young  veins  with  an  ecstasy  of 
living,  and  a  sharp  pang  of  compassion  stabbed  his  heart. 

Misguided,  bewitching,  —  ah,  yes,  and  loving,  —  Rosita 
lay  dead  in  the  midst  of  the  summer  gladness  that  seemed 
akin  to  her.  He  pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  and,  ignoring 


ROSITA  221 

some  cordial  greetings,  walked  hurriedly  to  the  post- 
trader's  quarters.  Presently  Lawless  came  to  him  in  the 
little  drawing-room,  which  was  unfamiliarly  dark  and  still. 

'God  bless  you!'  he  said,  laying  a  hand  on  Jerry's 
shoulder.  *  Those  words  do  not  mean  much  to  me.  I've 
wished  they  did  since  last  night.  But  you  will  understand 
from  them  that  I  am  grateful.  Hush!  I  have  nothing  to 
forgive  you.  Nor  had  she.  Will  you  come  to  see  her?  She 
never  knew  that  you  were  shielding  her,  or  she  would  have 
confessed;  and  she  wished  you  to  see  her  —  if  she  looked 
pretty.' 

Pretty,  indeed!  Poor  flower  of  a  people  Christianized 
just  enough  to  suffer  for  the  savage  instincts  they  do  not 
learn  to  control !  She  lay  with  a  crucifix  between  the  hands 
which  seemed  so  childish,  and  were  so  guilty. 

*  Remember  her  like  this,'  Lawless  continued.  'Remem 
ber,  too,  that  she  loved  you;  not  as  the  women  of  our  race 
love,  when  nature  is  subdued  by  civilization  and  ruled  by 
religion,  but  with  the  limitless  love  of  a  squaw  for  her  chief, 
knowing  neither  right  nor  wrong  in  her  devotion  to  him. 
For  under  her  daintiness  and  her  sweetness  Rosita  was  a 
squaw.' 

Across  her  grave  three  men  kept  silence.  There  is  an 
other  regiment  at  Lawrence  now,  and  when  the th 

Cavalry  remember  what  they  beheld  of  this  story,  they 
glance  at  their  quiet  major  with  wonder  for  his  fleeting 
madness.  Only  the  surgeon  and  one  or  two  ladies  murmur 
to  their  own  thoughts,  'Rosita?' 


PERJURED 

BY   EDITH   RONALD   MIRRIELBES 
A  lie  well  stuck  to  — 

IT  began  with  no  more  than  a  word,  such  as  a  man  might 
speak  and  forget  he  had  spoken.  At  the  time  of  speaking, 
Robbins  Nelson  was  standing  with  a  group  of  other  youths 
—  lads  in  their  late  'teens  and  early  twenties  — •  on  the  Su- 
tro  Station  platform.  All  their  eyes  were  on  the  approach 
ing  train,  and  all  their  tongues  were  busy  with  a  single 
topic. 

Robbins  was  the  youngest  member  of  the  group  — 
barely  turned  sixteen.  Usually  he  hung  somewhat  unre 
garded  on  its  edge,  but  to-day,  bold  in  the  possession  of 
first-hand  knowledge,  he  thrust  himself  into  the  heart  of 
the  talk. 

*  I  looked  right  down  on  him,  close  as  I  am  to  you.  I  was 
walking  along  over  that  cut  where  the  train  comes  through. 
Gee,  his  head  looked  three-cornered !  I  yelled,  but  the  engi 
neer  did  n't  know  what  I  meant.  Anyhow,  they  would  n't 
have  stopped  —  nothing  but  a  hobo/ 

'No  good  if  they  had/  an  older  speaker  took  up  the 
words.  'He  was  done  for.  Didn't  speak  but  once  after 
they  got  him  off.  "Don't  hit  me,"  he  says.  I  s'pose  when 
they  run  into  the  tunnel  and  whatever  it  was  jammed  into 
him  —  ' 

'He  didn't  get  hurt  in  any  tunnel/  Robbins  asserted. 
The  color  flared  into  his  face  with  the  intensity  of  his  con 
viction.  The  horrid  memory  of  the  man  set  him  to  blinking. 
'He  could  n't  get  hurt  if  he  was  lying  down,  could  he?  And 
if  he  was  standing  up,  it'd  knock  him  off,  wouldn't  it? 
It  was  n't  any  tunnel  — ' 


PERJURED  223 

He  broke  off,  aware  suddenly  of  the  smiling  ridicule  in 
the  faces  round  him.  Grotend,  brother-in-law  to  the  coro 
ner  who  had  held  the  inquest,  laughed  good-temperedly. 

'Go  it,  William  J.  Burns,  Junior!  I  s'pose  some  fancy 
murderer  crawled  up  on  top  between  stations.  Or  he  got 
jolted  down  out  of  an  air-ship.  It'd  take  something  like 


Grotend  was  popular  with  the  group.  Their  ready 
laughter  rewarded  the  attack.  And  the  younger  boy's 
crimson  misery  was  an  invitation  to  further  teasing. 

*  You  had  n't  ought  to  be  stingy  with  bright  ideas  like 
that,  Nelse.  He  sent  you  an  anonymous  letter,  did  n't  he? 
Or  maybe  you  saw  a  man  in  a  black  mask  beating  him 
up-' 

'  No,  I  did  n't  !  '  said  Robbins  loudly.  He  cast  about  des 
perately  in  his  mind  for  a  means  of  escape.  'I  did  n't  see 
anybody  beating  him  up,  but  I  saw  Jim  Whiting  coming 
down  off  the  end  of  the  car.' 

A  hush  followed  his  statement  —  a  tribute  to  the  weight 
of  it.  Grotend,  his  lips  parted  for  a  fresh  jibe,  drew  in  his 
breath  sharply  as  though  in  the  shock  of  a  cold  douche. 
Then,  — 

'You  saw  Jim  Whiting?'  he  reiterated. 

Jim  Whiting  was  brakeman  on  the  local  freight,  a  figure 
familiar  enough  to  all  of  them. 

'Getting  deaf,  are  n't  you?'  Robbins  retorted. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  his  tormentors  and  walked 
away  across  the  platform. 

He  was  not  much  impressed  with  the  importance  of  his 
lie.  Chiefly,  he  was  elated  that  there  had  come  to  him  a  lie 
suitable  to  turn  the  tables.  Half-way  home  his  elation 
lasted,  to  be  crowded  out  only  by  the  recurring  memory  of 
the  injured  tramp.  The  boy  had  never  before  seen  violent 
death.  The  picture  of  the  man  as  he  sped  past,  bloody  and 


224  PERJURED 

misshapen,  on  the  swaying  car-top;  the  later  picture  of 
him  borne  up  the  street  on  the  improvised  stretcher,  came 
back  upon  him  hideously.  That  for  such  destruction,  for 
such  wanton  suffering,  there  should  be  no  punishable  agent, 
seemed  intolerable.  And  the  idea  once  presented,  who  so 
likely  as  Whiting — 

He  heard  the  beat  of  footsteps  behind  him,  and  Grotend, 
breathing  quickly,  swung  into  pace  at  his  side. 

'I  been  trying  to  catch  up  with  you/  he  explained  un 
necessarily.  'Say,  when  Jim  come  out  on  the  platform,  I 
spoke  to  him.  I  says,  "One  of  the  fellows  says  he  saw  you 
up  on  top  that  day  the  tramp  got  hurt."  And  you'd  ought 
to  seen  him.  I  guess  he  knew  — ' 

'What'd  he  say?'  Robbins  interrupted. 

'All  he  says  was,  "You  tell  that  fellow  he's  a  liar";  but 
if  you  'd  seen  the  look  on  him  — ' 

'Don't  you  tell  him  I  said  it,'  the  younger  boy  cautioned. 
'I  don't  want  him  down  on  me.'  A  belated  stir  of  con 
science  set  him  to  hedging.  'Anyhow,  I  did  n't  say  I  saw 
him  up  on  the  car.  All  I  saw  was  when  he  was  just  there  on 
those  iron  steps  on  the  side.  I  don't  know  if  he  was  going  up 
or  down.' 

They  stood  at  the  Nelson  gate  for  a  little,  talking.  It  was 
full  dark  when  Robbins  went  up  the  shrub-lined  path  to 
the  porch.  In  the  lighted  dining-room  his  mother  and  the 
younger  children  were  already  at  supper. 

'Late,  Robbins,'  Mrs.  Nelson  admonished  as  he  slid  into 
his  place.  Then,  catching  sight  of  his  face,  'Tired  out?  If 
it's  that  accident  that's  worrying  you  — ' 

'It's  not,'  the  boy  denied.  He  felt  his  cheeks  grow  hot 
with  a  sudden  flush  of  annoyance.  '  I  don't  see  what  I  'd 
worry  about  that  for.  Only,  Charlie  Grotend  told  Mr. 
Whiting  I  saw  him  on  the  car  that  day,  and  it  made  Whit 
ing  mad.  I  was  wishing  he  had  n't.' 


PERJURED  225 

*You  did  n't  say  anything  more  than  that  —  that  he 
could  have  helped  it,  or  anything  like  that?  Well,  then!' 
She  put  the  discussion  aside  with  a  gesture.  *  Merle  Wil 
liams  telephoned  to  see  if  you  'd  come  over  there  to-night. 
You  might  as  well.  There 's  no  use  brooding  — ' 

*  I  'm  not  I '  Robbins  flung  back  angrily. 

His  spirits  lightened  somewhat  in  the  process  of  dressing 
for  his  outing.  They  lightened  still  more  when,  on  his  way 
to  the  place  of  entertainment,  he  came  up  with  three  or 
four  of  his  mates  similarly  bound,  and  went  on  with  them, 
easily  the  hero  of  the  little  group.  Sutro,  though  a  county 
seat,  was  a  place  of  few  excitements.  The  finding  of  the  in 
jured  tramp,  his  death,  the  inquest,  which  had  been  held 
that  day,  were  topics  of  surpassing  interest,  and  Robbins, 
by  virtue  of  his  momentary  contact,  found  his  importance 
measurably  enhanced.  Before  the  evening  was  over,  he  had 
told  his  story  a  half-dozen  times,  each  time  with  less  re 
pulsion,  with  a  keener  sense  of  its  dramatic  value. 

'  I  was  walking  along  the  cut  —  you  know,  there  where 
the  train  goes  under  you  —  and  I  saw  him  and  yelled  at  the 
engineer  to  stop.  I  thought  he  was  dead  already  —  he 
looked  like  it.  I  don't  know  what  I  yelled  for,  only  I 
thought  he'd  roll  off.  No,  I  did  n't  say  I  saw  Whiting  up 
on  top,  — • '  He  adhered  scrupulously  to  the  form  of  his 
first  telling,  —  'I  saw  him  on  those  steps  on  the  side.  I  'd 
called  to  him,  too,  if  I'd  seen  him  in  time,  but  I  did  n't.' 

*I  bet  he'd  have  understood,'  suggested  one  of  the 
listeners. 

There  was  something  cynical,  something  appalling,  in  the 
fashion  in  which  their  untempered  youth  seized  upon  the 
idea  of  guilt  as  the  concomitant  of  injury.  Robbins,  tramp 
ing  home  a  half -hour  after  midnight,  felt  all  round  him  the 
concurrence  of  his  mates  —  a  warm  supporting  wave.  He 
was  committed  beyond  retreat  now  to  his  theory.  Almost 

16 


226  PERJURED 

he  was  self -deceived.  Visualizing  the  scene,  he  could  scarce 
ly  have  said  whether,  actually,  he  saw  Whiting's  big  body 
flattened  against  the  side  of  the  car,  or  whether  he  himself 
had  superimposed  the  detail. 

He  slept  late  next  morning,  and  emerging,  discovered  his 
mother,  red-eyed,  moving  restlessly  between  kitchen  and 
dining-room.  She  called  to  him  as  he  came  out,  but  it  was 
not  until  he  was  seated  before  his  oven-dried  breakfast 
that,  with  a  long  breath,  as  though  she  braced  herself,  — 

'Mrs.  Cartwright  was  here  this  morning/  she  observed. 

The  words  were  indifferent,  but  the  tone  was  so  full  of 
significance  that  instinctively  the  boy  stopped  eating  to 
listen. 

*  She'd  been  sitting  up  last  night  with  Mrs.  Morgan. 
Bobbins,  that  boy  — •  that  poor  boy  —  was  n't  a  tramp  at 
all.   He  was  Charlie  Morgan,  trying  to  beat  his  way  back 
home.' 

'How'd  they  know?'  Robbins  asked. 

*  Something  about  the  body.    There  was  some  mark. 
It's  dreadful  for  his  mother.   And  it's  worse  because  she 
thinks  —  Mrs.  Cartwright  says  a  good  many  people  think 
—  it  was  n't  an  accident  at  all.  The  wound  don't  look  like 
it.  And  then  your  seeing  Mr.  Whiting  — ' 

'What'd  you  tell  her  that  for?'  Robbins  muttered. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  his  hunger  vanished  as  if  from 
feasting. 

'I  did  n't.  She  told  me.  She  says  that  man  who  has 
the  truck-garden  —  Emerson,  is  n't  it?  —  is  saying  he  saw 
Mr.  Whiting  on  the  car-roof  and  recognized  him.  But,  of 
course,  a  man  like  that — •' 

Her  tone  disposed  effectually  of  the  second  witness.  She 
got  to  her  feet  and  began  to  gather  up  the  dishes  from  the 
table. 

*  Mrs.  Cartwright  says  Mr.  Cartwright 's  looking  into  the 


PERJURED  227 

thing.  In  his  position,  he  'd  have  to.  I  told  her  you  'd  go  up 
to  his  office.'  She  was  passing  behind  Robbins's  chair  as 
she  spoke.  To  his  amazement,  she  stooped  and  laid  her 
cheek  for  an  instant  against  his  shoulder.  *  Don't  you  let 
him  worry  you,  Robbie.  You  just  stick  to  your  story,'  she 
counseled. 

'I'm  not  going  near  him,'  Robbins  declared  defiantly. 

More  than  the  hush  of  appreciation  at  his  first  statement, 
more  than  the  news  of  Whiting's  anger,  his  mother's  unex 
pected  caress  impressed  upon  him  the  seriousness  of  his 
position. 

When  he  left  the  house,  breakfast  ended,  he  was  fixed  in 
his  determination  neither  to  get  within  reach  of  Cart- 
wright,  who  was  county  attorney,  nor  to  repeat  his  story. 
But  once  upon  the  street  he  found  to  his  consternation 
that  the  story  no  longer  needed  his  repetition.  It  traveled 
on  every  tongue,  growing  as  it  went.  Nor  was  there  lacking 
other  evidence  to  support  it.  The  examining  physician 
shook  his  head  over  the  shape  and  nature  of  the  fatal 
wound;  the  helpers  who  had  carried  the  man  were  swift  to 
recollect  his  dying  words.  From  somewhere  there  sprang 
the  rumor  of  long-standing  feud  between  WThiting  and 
Charlie  Morgan.  Then  it  was  no  more  a  rumor  but  an  es 
tablished  fact  —  time,  place,  and  enhancing  circumstances 
all  known  and  repeated. 

'Enough  to  hang  anybody,'  Grotend  summed  up  the 
evidence,  following  with  his  coterie  the  trend  of  gossip. 
'  Only  thing  is,  it 's  funny  the  sort  of  people  that  do  all  the 
hearing  and  seeing.'  He  put  his  arm  round  Robbins's 
shoulders.  'There's  Nelse  here  and  Doc.  Simpson  — 
they're  all  right;  but  look  at  the  rest  of  'em  —  If  they  said 
it  was  a  nice  day,  I'd  know  it  was  raining.  Take  that 
Emerson  fellow  — ' 

'Well,  if  Nelse  saw  him  on  the  side,  I  don't  see  why 


228  PERJURED 

Emerson  couldn't  see  him  up  on  top;  he  must  V  been 
there/  a  listener  protested.  And  Robbins,  his  throat  con 
stricted,  drew  out  of  hearing. 

For  the  most  part,  however,  he  found  a  lively  satisfac 
tion  in  the  increase  of  rumor.  In  such  a  mass  of  testimony, 
he  reasoned,  his  own  bit  of  spurious  evidence  was  wholly 
unimportant.  When  that  day  and  a  second  and  still  a  third 
had  passed  with  no  demand  upon  him,  his  oppression  van 
ished.  Even  the  news  of  Whiting's  arrest  did  not  greatly 
disturb  him.  There  was  now  and  then  a  minute  of  sick  dis 
comfort,  —  once  when  the  truck-gardener  attempted  to 
hob-nob  with  him  on  the  strength  of  their  common  informa 
tion;  once  and  more  acutely  when  an  overheard  conversa 
tion  warned  him  that  the  accused  man  was  depending  on 
an  alibi,  —  but  for  the  most  part  he  put  the  danger  of  dis 
covery  resolutely  out  of  his  mind.  Even  should  the  alibi  be 
forthcoming  and  his  own  story  go  thereby  to  the  ground, 
'They  can't  be  sure  about  it,'  he  comforted  himself.  'They 
can't  know  I  did  n't  — '  Even  in  his  thought  he  left  the 
phrase  unfinished. 

It  was  the  fourth  day  after  Whiting's  arrest  that,  going 
toward  home  in  the  early  evening,  he  heard  his  name  spok 
en  from  behind,  and  turning,  saw  the  county  attorney. 
His  first  barely  inhibited  impulse  was  toward  flight,  but  it 
was  already  too  late  for  that.  The  elder  man's  greeting  de 
tained  him  as  by  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  He  halted  reluc 
tantly,  and  they  went  on  side  by  side. 

The  county  attorney  was  a  man  in  his  early  sixties  —  a 
tall  stooping  figure,  gray-haired,  with  an  habitual  courtesy 
of  manner  which,  more  than  irascibility,  intimidated  his 
younger  neighbors.  It  was  a  part  of  his  courtesy,  now,  to 
begin  far-off  from  the  subject  at  hand,  in  an  effort,  fore 
doomed  to  failure,  to  put  his  auditor  at  ease. 

'I  often  watch  you  tall  boys  going  past,  and  remind  my- 


PERJURED  229 

self  that  I  am  getting  old.  I  can  remember  most  of  you  in 
your  carriages.  Indeed,  with  you,  your  father  and  I  were 
law  students  together.  And  now  you're  in  high  school, 
your  mother  tells  me.'  And  with  hardly  a  shift  of  tone, 
*  She  tells  me,  too,  —  or  rather  my  wife  does,  —  that  you 
were  unfortunate  enough  to  see  Mr.  Whiting  on  the  day 
of  poor  Morgan's  death.  I  am  sorry  — ' 

'I —  didn't  see  him  do  anything,'  Bobbins  protested. 
His  tongue  was  suddenly  thick  and  furry,  and  the  words 
came  with  difficulty.  'Nothing  I  could  swear  to.  He  was 
just  — •  there.' 

He  was  staring  straight  ahead;  he  could  not  see  how 
shrewd  were  the  kindly  eyes  which  measured  him. 

*  Timid,'  the  lawyer  was  labeling  his  witness.  'Sensitive. 
Over-scrupulous.  He'd  scruple  his  testimony  out  of 
existence.' 

Aloud  he  spoke  with  grave  reassurance.  'Your  merely 
seeing  Mr.  Whiting  can  do  him  no  harm.  Indeed,  you  may 
not  be  needed  at  all.  The  preliminary  examination  having 
been  waived  — '  He  paused  for  a  moment  before  the  Nel 
son  gate,  his  thin-featured  old  face  remote  and  serious.  'In 
any  case,  remember  this,  my  boy.  Nothing  is  ever  required 
of  you  on  the  witness  stand  except  to  tell  your  story  exactly 
as  you  have  told  it  off  the  stand.  In  the  end  the  truth  will 
come  out  and  no  innocent  man  be  harmed.' 

He  congratulated  himself  as  he  went  on  up  the  street 
that  he  had  reassured  the  lad,  put  before  him  his  irrespon 
sibility  in  its  true  light.  Had  he  looked  back,  he  might  have 
seen  the  reassured  witness  staring  after  him  in  a  kind  of 
horror  of  amazement.  To  Robbins  it  was  as  if,  astound- 
ingly,  an  outsider  had  voiced  the  thought  of  his  own  heart. 
That  truth  must  prevail,  that  false  witnesses  would  be 
brought  to  confusion  —  it  was  a  belief  ingrained  into  the 


230  PERJURED 

fibre  of  his  being.  He  was  sick  with  a  premonition  of 
disgrace. 

'Only,  they  can't  know,'  he  tried  to  hearten  himself.  'I 
can  stick  to  it  I  did/  He  stood  still  a  moment,  the  line  of 
his  sensitive  chin  grown  suddenly  hard.  'And  I've  got  to 
stick  to  it, '  he  warned  himself.  '  I've  got  to  stick  it  out 
as  long  as  I  live.' 

It  did  not  need  the  county  attorney's  advice  to  keep  him 
away  from  the  court-room  during  the  opening  days  of  the 
trial.  With  all  the  youthful  masculinity  of  Sutro  crowding 
the  courthouse  steps,  Robbins  sat  at  home  in  the  hot, 
darkened  parlor,  reading  from  books  pulled  down  at  ran 
dom,  seeing  always,  no  matter  what  he  read,  a  room  set 
thick  with  eyes — eyes  scornful,  eyes  reproachful,  eyes 
speculative. 

When  at  last  the  ordeal  came,  it  was  so  much  less  dread 
ful  than  his  anticipation  of  it  that  he  was  conscious  of  an 
immediate  relief.  There  was,  indeed,  a  minute  of  blind  con 
fusion  as  he  made  his  way  toward  the  stand  —  voices  sing 
ing  in  his  ears,  a  blue  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  somehow, 
he  was  sworn  and  seated,  and  all  round  him  were  the  friend 
ly  faces  of  neighbors.  He  could  see  the  judge  nod  encour 
agement  to  him  over  his  desk;  he  could  see  the  bracing  kind 
ness  of  the  county  attorney's  glance.  Whiting  he  could  not 
see,  the  bowed  shoulders  of  a  reporter  intervening. 

He  was  scarcely  nervous  after  the  first  moments.  His 
story  flowed  from  him  without  effort,  almost  without  voli 
tion.  '  I  was  walking  along  the  track  —  I  'd  been  fishing  — ' 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  said  the  words  a  million 
times. 

There  were  interruptions  now  and  then;  objections;  ques 
tions  from  a  round-faced,  deep-voiced  youngster,  who,  Rob- 
bins  divined  presently,  was  Whiting's  lawyer;  but  all  of  it 
—  the  narrative,  the  pauses,  the  replies  —  came  with  the 


PERJURED  231 

regular,  effortless  movement  of  well-oiled  machinery.  He 
could  have  laughed  at  the  puerile  efforts  of  the  defense  to 
break  down  his  story.  —  *  Was  he  sure  that  he  knew  James 
Whiting? '  Was  there  a  resident  of  Sutro  who  did  not  know 
him?  *  Could  he  swear, — •  taking  thought  that  he  was 
under  oath,  —  could  he  swear  that  the  man  on  the  side  of 
the  car  was  James  Whiting  and  not  some  other  man  re 
sembling  him?  If,  on  a  moving  train,  another  man  resem 
bling  James  Whiting,  of  about  James  Whiting's  size  —  ' 

'He  knows  he  can't  touch  me,'  Robbins  was  thinking 
triumphantly.  'He  knows  it!' 

The  question  of  truth  or  falsehood  was  quite  removed 
from  him  now.  He  came  down  from  the  stand  finely  elated, 
and  in  the  afternoon  went  back  of  his  own  accord  to  the 
court-room.  Emerson,  the  truck-gardener,  was  under  ex 
amination  and  faring  badly.  One  by  one,  the  damaging 
facts  of  his  past  came  out  against  him  —  an  arrest  for 
theft,  a  jail  sentence  for  vagrancy,  a  quarrel  with  the  pris 
oner,  proved  threats.  The  victim  emerged  limp  from  the 
ordeal,  and  slunk  away  from  the  room,  wholly  discredited. 

'Serves  him  right,  though,'  Robbins  quenched  his  mo 
mentary  pity.  'I  knew  all  the  time  he  was  lying.'  He 
started  suddenly,  so  violently  that  the  listener  seated  next 
him  turned  in  irritation.  'And,'  it  had  flashed  through  his 
mind, '  and  he  knew  I  was ! ' 

His  eyes  sought  the  prisoner  —  the  man  who  also  knew 
—  where  he  sat  hunched  heavily  forward  in  his  chair,  his 
arms  upon  the  table.  For  an  instant,  pity,  like  some  racking 
physical  pain,  shot  through  Robbins.  To  be  caught  in  such 
a  web !  To  be  caught  through  no  fault  of  his  own !  It  was 
the  first  time  the  purely  personal  side  had  broken  its  way 
past  his  own  selfish  concern.  It  stifled  him  and,  forcing  his 
eyes  from  the  man's  brooding  face,  he  got  up  and  stumbled 
out  of  the  room. 


232  PERJURED 

But  he  could  not  stay  out.  An  indefinite  dread  dragged 
him  back  presently.  An  indefinite  dread  held  him  bound 
to  his  place  during  the  examination  of  the  witnesses  who 
followed,  during  the  days  of  argument,  and  the  judge's  in 
conclusive  charge.  He  lay  awake  on  the  night  following  the 
jury's  retirement,  picturing  over  and  over  in  his  own  min, 
the  scene  of  their  return  —  just  what  degree  of  astonish 
ment  his  face  should  show  in  listening  to  their  verdict,  with 
just  what  proud  reticence  and  conscious  wrong  he  should 
make  his  way  out  from  the  crowd.  He  had  never  said  that 
Whiting  was  guilty  • —  he  reminded  himself  of  that.  All  he 
had  ever  said  was  that  on  one  certain  day,  in  one  certain 
place  —  He  rolled  over  on  his  face  and,  hands  across  his 
eyes,  tried  vainly  to  sleep. 

Half  of  Sutro  was  loafing  about  the  court-house  lawn 
next  morning,  pushing  its  way  into  the  corridors  at  every 
rumor,  drifting  back  to  the  freer  outer  air.  When  at  last 
the  rumor  proved  a  true  one,  Robbins  found  himself  far  in 
the  back  of  the  room,  the  wall  behind  him,  on  three  sides 
a  packed,  jostling  crowd.  There  was  a  blur  of  unintentional 
noise  in  the  place  —  heavy  breathing,  the  creaking  of  a 
door.  Through  the  noise  pierced  at  intervals  the  accus 
tomed  voice  of  the  judge,  and  set  between  the  intervals  the 
mumble  of  the  foreman's  reply. 

' —  Agreed,  all  of  you?' 

'Do  you  find  the  prisoner  guilty  or  not  guilty? ' 

The  mumble  dropped  lower  still.  A  stir  swept  over  the 
front  of  the  room,  a  wave  of  voiceless  interest  passing  from 
front  to  back. 

'  What  —  what  — '  Robbins  stammered,  straining  higher 
on  tiptoe. 

'Guilty.  Manslaughter,'  said  the  man  beside  him.  He 
brought  his  hand  down  heavily  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 
'  Suits  you  all  right.  Everybody  knew  — ' 


PERJURED  233 

The  gavel  sounded  and  he  broke  off,  bending  forward  to 
listen. 

But  Robbins  did  not  listen.  It  was  as  though  the  founda 
tions  of  his  world  crumbled  round  him.  That  truth  should 
fail,  that  innocent  men  should  suffer  —  He  fumbled  at  the 
sleeve  of  the  man  on  the  other  side. 
*'    'I  — did  n't  hear.     They  said— ' 

'Sh-h!'  the  man  warned  him,  and  then,  behind  his  shel 
tering  hand,  'Guilty/ 

The  judge's  voice  dropped,  and  the  speaker  began  mov 
ing  with  others  toward  the  door.  Robbins  moved,  too  — 
as  one  dazed,  uncertain  what  he  did.  Some  one  stopped 
him  in  the  outer  passage.  He  was  conscious  of  congratu 
latory  sentences.  He  heard  his  own  voice  speaking  words 
which,  seemingly,  were  not  without  meaning.  And  all  the 
while  his  mind  waited,  awed,  for  the  impending  catastrophe. 

Mercifully,  the  house  was  empty  when  he  reached  home. 
He  tiptoed  into  his  own  room,  and  there,  the  door  closed 
behind  him,  stood  for  a  moment,  listening.  Then,  with  an 
exclamation,  he  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  the  bed  and 
buried  his  face  against  it. 

For  an  hour  he  knelt  there,  bodily  quiet,  his  mind  beat 
ing,  circling,  thrusting  desperately  against  its  surrounding 
cage  of  falsehood.  At  first  it  was  all  fear  —  how  the  ex 
posure  would  come,  how  best  he  might  sustain  himself 
against  it.  Then,  imperceptibly,  a  deeper  terror  crept  into 
his  thinking.  Suppose  it  should  not  come?  Suppose  —  But 
that  was  unthinkable.  For  a  lie  to  blast  a  man's  whole  life, 
for  a  lie  to  brand  him.  Stealthily,  as  if  his  very  stirring 
might  incense  the  devil-god  of  such  a  world,  he  slid  down, 
sitting  beside  the  bed,  his  distended,  horror-fascinated 
eyes  hard  on  the  wall.  In  these  minutes  his  young  faith  in 
God  and  justice  fought  to  the  death  with  the  injustice  be 
fore  him  —  fought  and  won. 


234  PERJURED 

'He'll  be  sentenced  Friday/  he  found  himself  thinking, 
drawing  on  some  half -heard  scrap  of  conversation.  *  That 's 
four  days.  There 's  time  enough  —  * 

He  dragged  himself  up  and  lay  down  at  full  length. 
Something  hot  smarted  upon  his  face;  he  put  up  his  hand  to 
find  his  cheeks  wet  with  tears.  They  flowed  quietly  for  a 
long  time  —  soothingly.  He  fell  asleep  at  last,  his  lashes 
still  heavy  with  them. 

He  was  very  early  at  the  court-house  Friday  morning. 
Cartwright,  coming  in  at  nine  to  his  office,  crossed  the  cor 
ridor  to  speak  to  him  —  cheerily. 

*  Well,  we  got  our  man,  Robbins.  You  made  a  good  wit 
ness  —  I  meant  to  tell  you  so  before;  no  confusing  you. 
Look  here,  my  boy,  you're  not  fretting  over  this?  If  it 
had  n't  been  you,  it  would  have  been  some  one  else.  There 's 
no  covering  a  crime  like  that/ 

'Not  —  ever? '  said  Robbins  thickly. 

His  secret  was  at  his  tongue's  end.  A  glance  of  inter 
rogation  would  have  brought  it  spilling  out.  But  there  was 
no  interrogation  in  his  companion's  eyes  —  only  an  ab 
stracted  kindness.  He  looked  away  from  the  lad  toward  the 
stragglers  along  the  corridor. 

'You  came  up  to  hear  the  sentence?  Come  in  through 
my  office  and  we'll  find  you  a  seat.  The  place  will  be 
packed/ 

'  There 's  nothing  new? '  Robbins  asked  unwillingly.  '  No 
—  new  evidence? ' 

'Why,  no!  The  case  will  be  closed  in  another  half -hour. 
And  then  I  hope  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  you  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  a  criminal  charge  again.  Now  if  you  want 
to  come  in  — ' 

Robbins  followed,  silent.  It  did  not  trouble  him  to  find 
himself  placed  conspicuously  in  the  front  row.  His  whole 
attention  was  set  upon  holding  fast  to  the  one  strand  of 


PERJURED  235 

hope  extended  to  him.  In  half  an  hour  it  would  be  over.  In 
half  an  hour  the  hideous  thing  would  be  folded  into  the 
past.  But  it  would  not!  The  case  against  Whiting  would  be 
ended,  the  arraignment  of  God  would  be  but  just  begun! 
To  go  on  living  in  a  world  so  guardianed — 

The  judge  entered  and  took  his  place;  the  lawyers  on 
either  side  filed  in  to  their  stations  about  the  long  table;  the 
prisoner  was  brought  in,  in  the  custody  of  a  deputy  sheriff. 
There  was  a  little  bustle  of  curiosity  to  herald  his  coming. 
Then  the  packed  room  settled  to  attention. 

Robbins  leaned  forward  in  his  seat.  He  heard  vaguely 
the  opening  interchanges  of  speech.  He  saw  the  prisoner 
rise.  The  man  was  clay-colored;  his  teeth  scraped  back  and 
forth  continually  on  his  dry  lower  lip.  There  was  no  re 
source  in  him,  no  help.  And  suddenly  the  watcher  knew 
that  help  was  nowhere.  The  voice  of  the  judge  reached 
him,  low-pitched  and  solemn,  as  befitted  the  occasion. 

'  —  Having  been  found  guilty  —  decree  that  you  be 
confined — * 

'No  r  said  Robbins  suddenly  almost  in  a  scream. 

All  at  once  the  thing  was  clear  to  him.  It  was  not  Whit 
ing  who  was  being  sentenced:  it  was  God  who  was  on  trial, 
it  was  truth,  good  faith,  the  right  to  hope. 

The  impulse  of  his  cry  had  wrenched  him  from  his  chair. 
He  stood  flung  forward  against  the  rail. 

*  You  can't !  I  never  saw  him !  They  were  tormenting  me 
and  I  said  I  did.  He  was  n't  there — ' 

Behind  him  the  court-room  rang  with  excitement.  He 
was  aware  of  startled  exclamations.  He  was  aware  of  Cart- 
wright,  tragic-eyed,  beside  him,  half-sheltering  him,  calling 
to  him. 

*  Robbins!    What's  wrong?    He's  not  speaking  under 
oath.  He 's  been  brooding  — ' 

*  It 's  so  / '  said  the  boy. 


236  PERJURED 

For  a  moment  he  held  himself  erect  among  them,  high- 
headed,  joyous,  splendid  with  the  exaltation  of  the  martyr. 
Then,  suddenly,  his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  prisoner.  He 
dropped  back  into  his  seat,  his  shaking  hands  before  his 
face. 

It  had  lasted  a  second,  less  than  a  second,  that  frank,  in 
voluntary  revelation;  but  in  that  second,  his  guard  beaten 
down  by  sheer  amazement,  the  prisoner's  guilt  stood  plain 
in  his  face.  In  that  second,  reading  the  craven  record  of  it, 
Bobbins  saw  the  glory  of  martyrdom  snatched  from  him 
forever  —  knew  himself,  now  and  now  only,  irrevocably 
perjured. 


WHAT  MR.   GREY  SAID 

BY   MARGARET   PRESCOTT   MONTAGUE 

HE  was  the  smallest  blind  child  at  Lomax,  the  State 
school  for  deaf  and  blind  children.  Even  Jimmie  Little, 
who  looked  like  a  small  gray  mouse,  and  who  had  always 
been  regarded  by  the  teachers  as  not  much  bigger  than  a 
minute,  appeared  large  beside  Stanislaus.  He  was  so  small, 
in  fact,  that  Mr.  Lincoln,  the  Superintendent,  had  declined 
at  first  to  admit  him. 

'We  don't  take  children  under  six,'  he  had  said  to 
Stanislaus's  father  when  the  latter  had  brought  him  to 
Lomax,  'and  your  little  boy  does  n't  look  five  yet.' 

'He'll  be  five  the  twenty-second  of  March,'  the  father 
said. 

'I'll  be  five  ve  twenty-second  of  March,'  Stanislaus 
echoed. 

He  was  sitting  holding  his  cap  politely  between  his  knees, 
swinging  his  fat  legs  with  a  gay  serenity,  while  his  blind  eyes 
stared  away  into  the  dark.  He  had  not  been  paying  much 
attention  to  the  conversation,  being  occupied  with  the 
working  out  of  a  little  silent  bit  of  rhythm  by  an  elaborate 
system  of  leg-swings:  twice  out  with  the  right  foot;  twice 
with  the  left;  then  twice  together.  He  had  found  that 
swinging  his  legs  helped  to  pass  the  time  when  grown-ups 
were  talking.  The  mention  of  his  birthday,  however, 
brought  him  at  once  to  the  surface.  That  was  because  Mr. 
Grey  had  told  him  of  a  wonderful  thing  which  would  hap 
pen  the  day  he  was  five.  Thereafter  his  legs  swung  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  happy  unheard  chant:  — 


238  WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

'  I'll  be  five  years  old  '  (right  leg  out), 
4  I'll  be  five  years  old  '  (left  leg  out), 
'  I'll  be  five  years  old  on  my  birf-dayl ' 

(Both  legs  in  ecstatic  conjunction.) 

Stanislaus's  father,  a  sad-eyed  man,  who,  though  he 
spoke  with  no  accent,  was  evidently  of  emigrant  extraction, 
looked  troubled. 

'My  wife's  dead/  he  said,  'an'  I'm  workin'  in  the  coal 
mines,  an'  you  know  that  ain't  no  place  for  a  little  blind 
child.  Every  one  told  me  sure  you'd  take  him  here.' 

Mr.  Lincoln  hesitated.  'Well,'  he  said  at  length,  'I'll 
send  for  Miss  Lyman,  —  she 's  the  matron  for  the  blind 
boys,  —  and  if  she  consents  to  take  him,  I  '11  make  no 
objection.' 

Miss  Lyman  appeared  presently,  and  Mr.  Lincoln  ex 
plained  the  situation. 

'But  he  is  such  a  little  chap,'  he  concluded,  'it  seems 
hardly  possible  for  us  to  take  him.' 

Here,  however,  Stanislaus  gave  over  his  leg-swinging  and 
took  it  upon  himself  to  remonstrate. 

'I  ain't  little,'  he  said  firmly.  Slipping  off  his  chair,  he 
drew  himself  up  very  straight,  and  began  patting  himself 
all  over.  'Feel  me,'  he  urged,  'dest  feel  me,  I'm  weally 
big.  Feel  my  arms,'  he  held  these  chubby  members  out  to 
Miss  Lyman.  'An'  my  legs,  — '  he  patted  them,  —  'why 
ve're  aw-ful  big!'  His  serious  little  mouth  rounded  itself 
to  amazement  at  the  bigness  of  his  legs. 

It  was  beyond  human  nature,  or  at  least  beyond  Miss 
Lyman's  nature,  to  resist  the  appeal  of  his  eager  voice  and 
patting  baby  hands.  Obediently  she  ran  an  inquiring 
touch  over  his  soft  body,  which  was  still  plump  babyhood, 
not  having  as  yet  thinned  to  boyhood. 

'Why,'  she  said,  turning  gravely  to  Mr.  Lincoln,  'he 
does  look  rather  small,  but  when  you  feel  him,  you  find  he 
is  really  quite  big.' 


WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID  239 

'Does  he  feel  big  enough  for  us  to  take?'  Mr.  Lincoln 
demanded. 

'  Oh,  I  think  so ! '  she  answered  quickly,  one  arm  slipping 
about  the  little  boy's  shoulders. 

'An'  I'll  be  five  ve  twenty-second  of  March,'  Stanislaus 
threw  in  to  overbalance  the  argument  in  his  favor. 

He  snuggled  himself  confidingly  against  Miss  Lyman, 
and  fell  to  playing  with  the  many  jingling  attachments  of 
her  chatelaine. 

'I  heard  vese  tinkly  fings  when  you  was  comin'  V-a-y 
a-w-a-y  outside,  'fore  you  o-pened  ve  door,'  he  murmured 
softly. 

'His  mother  's  dead,'  the  man  explained. 

'Little  sister's  dead,  too,'  Stanislaus  supplemented  him. 
'  S  'e  token  a  awful  bad  cold  so  s  'e  could  n't  b  'eave.  I  take 
awful  bad  colds,  but  I  don't  die,  do  I?'  he  demanded. 

'Yes,'  said  the  man,  'my  baby's  dead,  too.  I  had  a 
woman  lookin'  after  both  kids,  but  she  let  the  baby  git 
the  pneumonia.' 

'I  fink  I  like  you  better  van  vat  other  lady,'  Stanislaus 
confided  to  Miss  Lyman. 

'Of  course  we  can  take  him,'  Miss  Lyman  said  hastily  to 
Mr.  Lincoln. 

And  thus  it  was  that  Stanislaus  came  to  Lomax. 

As  has  been  said,  he  was  the  youngest  child  at  school. 
This  in  itself  was  sufficient  to  set  him  apart  from  the  thirty 
or  so  other  blind  boys;  but  there  were  other  things  that 
served  to  distinguish  him  as  well.  His  thoughts,  for  in 
stance,  were  so  different  —  so  unexpected  and  whimsical; 
so  entirely  off  the  beaten  track. 

Witness  Mr.  Grey,  for  instance.  At  his  best  Mr.  Grey 
was  a  delightful  person;  but  as  he  was  of  a  retiring  disposi 
tion,  he  never  flowered  into  being,  save  in  a  sympathetic  at 
mosphere.  Miss  Julia,  for  example,  never  met  Mr.  Grey. 


240  WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

She  was  one  of  the  older  teachers,  whose  boast  it  was  that 
she  never  stood  for  any  foolishness.  In  her  not  doing  so, 
however,  she  was  apt  to  walk  with  a  heavy  foot  over  other 
folks'  most  cherished  feelings.  For  which  reason,  sensitive 
people  were  inclined  in  her  presence  to  retreat  within  them 
selves,  sailing,  as  it  were,  with  their  lights  blanketed. 
This  was  the  reason,  no  doubt,  why  she  and  Mr.  Grey 
never  met. 

Indeed,  Mr.  Grey  was  of  such  an  extremely  shy  nature 
that  he  had  to  be  observed  with  the  greatest  delicacy. 
Looked  at  too  closely,  he  was  apt  to  go  out  like  a  blown 
candle.  He  lived  apparently  in  an  empty  closet  in  the  blind 
boys'  clothes  room.  It  is  probable  that  he  had  taken  up 
his  abode  there  for  the  sake  of  being  near  Stanislaus,  for 
as  the  latter  was  too  small  to  be  in  school  all  the  morning, 
he  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  with  Miss  Lyman  in  the  clothes 
room,  where  she  sat  and  sewed  on  buttons,  mended  rips,  and 
put  on  patches,  in  a  desperate  endeavor  to  keep  her  army 
of  blind  boys  mended  up.  When  the  other  children  were 
about,  as  they  usually  were  on  Saturdays,  Mr.  Grey  kept 
discreetly  to  himself,  and  his  presence  in  the  closet  would 
not  have  been  suspected.  On  the  long  school  mornings, 
however,  when  Miss  Lyman  sat  quietly  sewing,  with  Stan 
islaus  playing  about,  no  one  could  be  more  unbending  than 
Mr.  Grey.  Stanislaus  would  go  over  to  the  closet  and  open 
it  a  crack,  and  then  he  and  Mr.  Grey  would  fall  into  pleas 
ant  conversation.  Miss  Lyman,  of  course,  could  hear  only 
Stanislaus's  side  of  it,  but  he  constantly  repeated  his 
friend's  remarks  for  her  benefit. 

From  hints  which  Stanislaus  let  fall,  Miss  Lyman  gath 
ered  that  there  had  once  been  a  real  Mr.  Grey  in  the  past, 
from  which  beginning,  the  interesting  personality  of  the 
closet  had  developed. 

Mr.  Grey's  comments  upon  things  and  people,  as  re- 


WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID  241 

peated  by  Stanislaus,  showed  a  unique  turn  of  mind.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  poor  opinion  of  mankind  in  general, 
coupled  with  an  excellent  one  of  himself  in  particular;  for, 
retiring  as  he  was  before  strangers,  in  the  presence  of  friends 
he  blossomed  into  an  incorrigible  braggart.  If  any  one 
failed  to  do  anything,  Mr.  Grey  could  always  have  done 
it,  and  never  hesitated  to  say  so.  There  was,  for  instance, 
the  time  when  Mr.  Beverly,  one  of  the  supervisors,  was 
thrown  from  his  horse  and  rather  severely  bruised.  When 
informed  of  the  incident  by  Stanislaus,  who  always  gave 
his  friend  the  news  of  the  day,  Mr.  Grey  was  very  scornful. 

'Gwey  says,'  Stanislaus,  over  by  the  half-open  closet 
door,  turned  to  announce  to  Miss  Lyman,  *  'at  he  never  had 
no  horse  to  frow  him  yet  —  an'  he 's  wid  all  kinds  of  horses. 
Horses  wif  four  legs,  an'  horses  wif  five  legs,  • — '  Stanislaus 
had  been  learning  to  count  lately,  —  *  an'  horses  wif  six 
legs.' 

Again,  when  Miss  Lyman  sighed  over  a  particularly  dis 
reputable  pair  of  Edward  Stone's  trousers,  remarking  that 
she  really  did  not  think  she  could  patch  those,  she  was  met 
by  the  assertion,  '  Gwey  says  he  could  patch  'em.  He  says 
he  ain't  erfwaid  to  patch  nobody's  pants.  He  could  patch 
Eddy  Stone's,  a-a-n'  he  could  patch  Jimmie  Nickle's, 
a-a-a-n'  Sam  Black's,  an'  — •  an' '  — this  last  all  in  a  hurry, 
and  as  a  supreme  evidence  of  proficiency  in  the  art  of  patch 
ing  —  'he  dest  b'ieves  he  could  patch  Mr.  Lincoln's  pants ! ' 

But  this  was  more  than  Miss  Lyman  could  stand.  *No, 
he  could  n't  either,  for  Mrs.  Lincoln  would  n't  let  him,' 
she  declared,  stung  to  retort  by  such  unbridled  claims  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Grey. 

It  is  sad  to  relate  also  that  Mr.  Grey  was  a  skeptic  as  well 
as  a  braggart,  and  had  had,  apparently,  a  doubtful  past. 
This  was  revealed  the  morning  after  the  Sunday  on  which 
Stanislaus  had  first  encountered  the  Flood,  the  Ark,  and 

17 


242  WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

Noah.  After  giving  Mr.  Grey  on  Monday  morning  a 
graphic  account  of  the  affair,  —  'An'  Noah  him  went  into 
ve  ark,  an'  token  all  ve  animals  wif  him,  an'  ven  all  ve 
wicked  people  was  dwown-ed,'  —  Stanislaus  appeared  to 
listen  a  moment,  after  which  he  turned  to  Miss  Lyman. 

'Gwey  says/  he  reported,  "at  he  does  n't  b'ieve  all  ve 
wicked  people  was  dwown-ed,  'cause  he  was  a-livin'  ven, 
an'  he  was  a  very  wicked  man,  an'  he  did  n't  go  into  ve 
Ark,  an'  he  was  n't  dwown-ed.' 

Miss  Lyman  might  have  forgiven  Mr.  Grey's  skepticism, 
but  he  showed  a  tendency  to  incite  Stanislaus  to  a  reckless 
ness  which  could  not  be  overlooked. 

None  of  the  children  were  allowed  to  leave  the  school 
grounds  without  permission,  but  time  and  again  Stanislaus 
slipped  out  of  the  gate,  and  was  caught  marching  straight 
down  the  middle  of  the  road  leading  to  the  village.  This 
was  a  particularly  alarming  proceeding,  because  at  this 
point  in  the  road  automobiles  were  apt  to  put  on  their  last 
crazy  burst  of  speed,  before  having  to  slow  down  to  the 
sober  ten  miles  an  hour  of  the  village  limits.  Indeed,  one 
day,  he  was  returned  to  the  school  by  a  white  and  irate 
automobilist. 

'What  do  you  suppose  this  little  scoundrel  did? '  the  man 
stormed.  '  Why,  he  ran  out  from  the  side  of  the  road  and 
barked  at  my  car!' 

'I  was  dest  pertendin'  I  was  a  little  puppy  dog,'  Stanis 
laus  murmured  softly. 

'Pretending  you  were  a  puppy  dog!'  roared  the  man. 
'Well,  if  I  had  n't  ditched  my  machine — •!  A  puppy  dog, 
indeed!' 

Stanislaus  was  turned  over  to  Miss  Lyman  for  very 
severe  chastisement.  He  shed  bitter  tears,  and  in  the  midst 
of  them  his  instigator's  name  came  out. 

'  G-gwey  said  he   al'us  barked  at  aut 'mobiles  —  dest 


WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID  243 

barked  an'  barked  at  'em  —  dest  whenever  he  got  weady/ 
he  sobbed. 

*  If  you  ever  do  such  a  dreadful  thing  again,  I  shall  give 
you  the  very  worst  whipping  you  ever  had,'  Miss  Lyman 
scolded.  *  Little  blind  boys  have  got  to  learn  to  be  careful 
where  they  walk.' 

To  which  Stanislaus  made  the  astonishing  reply :  — 

'  Gwey  says  he  dest  walked  anywhere  he  got  weady  when 
he  was  little  —  'fore  he  got  his  eyes  open.' 

That  was  the  first  hint  that  Miss  Lyman  got  of  it.  After 
wards  she  and  Miss  Cynthia  —  Stanislaus's  teacher  — 
caught  constant  glimpses  of  a  curious  idea  that  dodged  in 
and  out  of  the  little  boy's  flow  of  talk.  A  queer,  elusive, 
will-o'-the-wisp  idea,  caught  one  minute,  gone  the  next, 
yet  informing  all  the  child's  dreams  and  happy  castles  of 
the  future. 

At  first  they  compared  notes  on  the  subject. 

'What  do  you  suppose  Stanny  has  got  into  his  head?' 
Miss  Lyman  demanded  of  Miss  Cynthia.  'When  I  told 
him  that  Kent  Woodward  had  a  little  sister,  he  said,  "Has 
s  'e  got  her  eyes  open  yet?  " 

'Yes,'  agreed  Miss  Cynthia;  'and  when  I  happened  to 
say  that  Jimmie  Nickle  was  the  biggest  blind  boy  in  school, 
he  said  he  must  be  awful  stupid  not  to  have  got  his  eyes 
open  yet.' 

But  afterwards  they  both  by  common  consent  avoided 
the  subject.  This  was  because  each  dreaded  that  the 
other  might  confirm  a  fear  that  was  shaping  itself  in  their 
minds. 

It  is  probable  that  these  two  loved  Stanislaus  better 
than  any  one  else  loved  him  in  all  the  world.  Certainly  if 
his  father  cared  more  for  him,  he  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  show  it,  having  seemingly  washed  his  hands  of  the  little 
fellow  after  turning  him  over  to  the  school.  It  was  partly 


244  WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

his  delightful  trick  of  individualizing  people  in  general,  and 
his  friends  in  particular,  that  had  so  endeared  him  to  these 
two.  'I  al'us  know  when  it's  you,'  he  confided  to  Miss  / 
Lyman,  as  he  played  with  her  chatelaine,  * 'cause  I  hear 
vese  tinkly  fings  coming  way  and  away,  'fore  you  gits  here.' 
While  to  Miss  Cynthia  he  said,  *  I  al'us  knows  you  by  vat 
sweet  smell.'  And  often  he  surprised  them  by  such  remarks 
as  'You  don't  like  wainy  days,  do  you,  Miss  Lyman?  1^ 
heard  you  tell  Miss  Cyn-fee-ia  vat  wainy  days  de-de- 
depwessed  you.'  He  got  the  big  word  out  after  a  struggle. 
'I  fink,'  he  added,  'vat  wainy  days  de-depwess  me  too.'  7- 

This  last  remark  was  simply  an  extra  flourish  of  polite 
ness  on  his  part.  Nothing  ever  really  depressed  him,  and 
when  he  said,  'Miss  Cyn-fee-ia  says  s'e  likes  to  laugh;  I 
fink  I  like  to  laugh  too,'  he  came  much  nearer  the  truth. 
He  did  like  to  laugh,  and  he  loved  life  and  all  it  had  to  offer 
him.  Each  morning  was  a  wonderful  gift  to  him,  and  his 
days  went  by  like  a  chain  of  golden  beads  strung  together 
on  a  thread  of  delight. 

It  was  because  of  his  delight  in  life,  and  because  they 
loved  him,  and  could  not  bear  that  Fate  should  prick  any 
of  his  rainbow  bubbles,  that  both  Miss  Lyman  and  Miss 
Cynthia  avoided  the  subject  after  they  had  once  discov 
ered  what  tragic  little  hope  his  mind  was  fostering. 

Miss  Julia,  however,  was  different.  Her  sensibilities  did 
not  lead  her  into  by-paths  of  pathos;  therefore,  when  she 
chanced  upon  Stanislaus's  little  secret,  she  joyfully  pro 
claimed  it. 

'Well,  if  that  little  Stanislaus  is  n't  the  funniest  child  I 
ever  did  see ! '  she  began  one  evening  in  the  teachers'  hall. 
'  Why,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  he  thinks  that  children  are  like 
kittens  and  puppies,  and  are  all  born  blind,  and  after  a 
while  they  get  their  eyes  open  just  like  cats  and  dogs.  He 
thinks  he  is  big  enough  now  to  have  his  eyes  open  'most 


WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID  245 

any  day.  Well,  I  did  n't  tell  him  any  better,  but  I  thought 
I  should  die  laughing/ 

Here  Miss  Lyman  and  Miss  Cynthia  rose  with  one  ac 
cord,  and  left  the  teachers'  hall.  Upstairs  in  Miss  Lyman's 
room  they  faced  each  other. 

'You  knew?'  Miss  Cynthia  half  questioned,  half  as 
serted. 

'How  can  I  help  knowing!'  Miss  Lyman  cried  passion 
ately.  '  He 's  always  telling  me  what  he 's  going  to  do  when 
"I'm  big  an' can  see."  It  is  n't  a  foolish  idea!  It's  a  per 
fectly  natural  one.  Some  one  has  told  him  about  puppies 
and  kittens,  and  of  course  he  thought  children  were  the 
same  way.  It  is  n't  foolish,  it's  — ' 

'You've  got  to  tell  him  the  truth,'  Miss  Cynthia  inter 
posed. 

'I  won't,'  Miss  Lyman  declared.  'All  his  dreams  and 
hopes  are  centred  on  that  idea.' 

'If  you  don't  tell  him,  the  other  boys  will  find  it  out 
soon  and  laugh  at  him,  and  that  will  be  worse.' 

'Well,  why  have  I  got  to  tell  him?  Why  don't  you?' 

'He  loves  you  best,'  Miss  Cynthia  evaded. 

'I  don't  believe  any  one  will  have  to  tell  him,'  Miss  Ly 
man  took  her  up,  hopefully.  '  I  believe  it  will  just  drop  out 
of  his  mind  as  he  gets  older.  He  '11  just  cease  to  believe  it 
without  any  shock,  without  ever  really  knowing  when  he 
found  out  it  was  n't  so.' 

But  she  reckoned  without  Mr.  Grey.  He,  it  appeared, 
had  fixed  a  date  for  the  great  event. 

'Gwey  says,'  Stanislaus  announced,  'vat  he  got  his  eyes 
open  ve  day  he  was  five,  an'  he  dest  bets  I  '11  get  mine  open 
ven  too.' 

Thereafter,  all  his  dreams  and  plays  were  inspired  by  the 
magic  words,  'When  I'm  five  an' can  see.'  The  sentence 
served  as  a  mental  spring-board  to  jump  his  imagination 


246  WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

off  into  a  world  of  wonder  where  he  could  see,  'dest  —  dest 
as  good  as  big  folks/  or  'dest  as  good  as  Gwey.' 

Every  day  his  fifth  birthday  drew  nearer,  and  Miss 
Cynthia's  eyes  said,  You've  got  to  tell;  and  everyday  Miss 
Lyman  avoided  them. 

At  last  it  was  the  day  before  his  birthday.  He  waked 
with  the  words,  'To-mowwow  is  my  birfday,'  on  his  tongue, 
and  scrambled  out  of  bed,  a  little  night-shirted  figure  of 
ecstasy.  His  dressing  that  morning  —  the  putting  on  of  his 
shoes,  the  scrubbing  of  his  fingers,  the  rather  uncertain 
brushing  of  his  hair — all  went  off  to  the  happy  refrain  of  — 

'To-mowwow  is  my  birfday,  my  birfday,  my  birfday!' 

Some  deep  wisdom  kept  him  from  letting  the  other  boys 
suspect  what  Mr.  Grey  had  foretold  for  his  birthday;  but 
when  he  came  to  Miss  Lyman  that  she  might  look  him 
over  before  he  went  to  school,  he  pulled  her  down  close  to 
whisper,  'I'm  goin'  to  look  at  you  de  very  first  one  of  all.  v 
And  to  seal  the  matter  he  deposited  a  kiss  in  the  palm  of 
her  hand,  and  shut  her  fingers  upon  it. 

'Keep  vat  till  I  come  back,'  he  commanded,  and  went 
jauntily  off  to  school,  where  in  all  probability  he  made  the 
same  engaging  promise  to  Miss  Cynthia,  and  sealed  it  with 
the  same  token.  But  if  he  did,  one  may  be  certain  he  hid 
the  token  safe  away  in  her  hand.  He  was  always  shy  about 
kisses,  not  being  quite  sure  but  that  they  might  be  visible. 
You  could  certainly  feel  the  things,  so  why  might  n't  they 
be  seen  as  well,  sticking  right  out  on  one's  cheek,  for  seeing 
people  to  stare  at?  For  this  reason,  he  refused  them  on  his 
own  account,  "cause  vey  might  show';  and  those  that  he 
gave  were  always  bestowed  in  the  palm  of  the  hand,  where 
the  fingers  could  be  closed  hastily  upon  them. 

Miss  Lyman  sat  in  the  clothes  room  that  morning,  and 
sewed  and  waited.  Her  needle  blurred,  and  her  thread 
knotted,  and  the  patches  seemed  more  difficult  than  ever, 


WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID  247 

and  all  because  she  had  told  herself  that  presently  she  must 
take  a  little  boy  up  in  her  lap  and  shatter  his  dearest  hope 
with  truth.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that,  when  he 
came  from  school  that  morning,  she  would  have  to  tell  him. 
Therefore  she  sat  and  sewed,  her  whole  being  tense  for 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps.  She  knew  just  how  he  would 
come  —  with  a  sudden  scamper  up  the  steps  outside.  He 
always  ran  as  soon  as  his  fingers  were  sure  of  the  rail,  be 
cause  much  of  his  time  he  was  an  engine,  'An'  vats  ve  way 
twains  come  up  steps.'  Then  he  would  whisk  around  the 
corner,  fumble  an  instant  for  the  door-handle,  and  burst 
in  upon  her. 

But  after  all,  none  of  these  sounds  came.  Instead,  there 
was  suddenly  the  trampling  of  grown-up  feet,  the  rush  of 
skirts,  and  Miss  Cynthia  threw  the  door  open. 

'Oh,  come  —  come  quick!'  she  panted.  'Stanny  is  hurt 
— •  He  ran  away  —  Oh,  I  told  him  to  come  straight  to  you! 
But  he  ran  away  down  the  road,  and  a  motor  — ' 

Together  they  sped  down  the  long  corridors  to  the  hospi 
tal.  They  had  brought  Stanny  there  and  laid  him  on  one 
of  the  very  clean  little  beds.  Such  a  tiny  crushed  morsel  of 
humanity  in  the  centre  of  the  big  bare  room!  But  his  hand 
moved  and  he  found  Miss  Lyman's  chatelaine  as  she  bent 
over  him. 

'I  knowed  you  was  comin'  by  ve  tinkly  fings,'  he  whis 
pered.  Then  —  'I  was  dest  playin'  it  was  my  birfday  an' 
I  could  see.  —  Gwey  said  to.  —  Is  you  —  is  you  goin'  to 
punish  me  vis  time? '  he  quavered. 

'No,  lovey,  no  —  not  this  time,'  she  faltered,  for  she  had 
caught  the  look  on  the  doctor's  face. 

'Gwey  said  he  al'us  dest  barked  an'  barked  at  aut'- 
mobiles.  —  Let  me  hold  ve  tinkly  fings  so 's  I  will  know 
you  is  vere.'  And  by  and  by  he  murmured,  'It'll  be  my 
birfday  soon  —  weal  soon  now,  won't  it?  ' 


248  WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

'Very,  very  soon  now/  she  answered,  and  clinched  her 
hand  tight  to  keep  her  voice  steady. 

'Why/  he  said,  his  restless  fingers  chancing  upon  her 
clinched  ones, '  why,  you  is  still  got  my  kiss  all  tight  in  you 
hand.  I'd  fink  it  would  be  all  melted  by  now/  A  little 
startled  moan  cut  him  short.  'I  hurts!'  he  cried.  'Oh,  I 
hurts! ' 

'Yes/  she  answered  breathlessly,  'yes,  my  darling,  it 
will  hurt  a  little/ 

'Is  it  —  is  it  'cause  my  eyes  is  openin'?'  he  gasped. 

'Yes,  lovey,  that's  the  reason/  Her  hand  held  his  tight. 
'But  it  won't  hurt  long. ' 

'Gwey  never  —  never  said  it  would  hurt  like  vis/  he 
sobbed. 

The  doctor  stooped  down  and  made  a  tiny  prick  in  the 
baby  arm,  and  after  a  little  Stanislaus  lay  still. 

'He  may  be  conscious  again  before  the  end/  the  doctor 
said,  'but  I  hardly  think  it  is  likely/ 

He  was  not.  He  tossed  a  little,  and  murmured  broken 
snatches  of  words,  but  he  was  too  busy  going  along  this 
new  exciting  path  to  turn  back  to  the  old  ways,  even  to 
speak  to  his  friends. 

Miss  Lyman  sat  beside  him  all  through  the  bright  after 
noon,  through  the  tender  dusk,  and  through  the  dark. 
Late  in  the  night,  he  stirred,  and  cried  out  with  a  little 
happy  breath,  — 

'My  birfday!    It's  come!  ' 

And  by  the  time  it  was  morning  he  had  gone. 

Miss  Lyman  closed  the  eyes  that  had  opened  so  wide 
upon  another  world,  drew  up  all  the  curtains,  that  the  room 
might  be  flooded  with  the  dancing  light  of  his  birthday 
morning,  said  a  little  prayer,  committing  him  to  his  angel, 
and  stole  softly  away. 


A   SOLDIER   OF  THE   LEGION 

BY   E.    MORLAE 

IT  was  almost  daylight,  and  things  were  visible  at  two  to 
three  metres.  The  bombardment  had  died  down,  and  the 
quiet  was  hardly  disturbed  by  occasional  shots.  Our  cap 
tain  marched  ahead  of  the  second  section,  swinging  a  cane 
and  contentedly  puffing  on  his  pipe.  Nearly  everybody  was 
smoking.  As  we  marched  along  we  noticed  that  new 
trenches  had  been  dug  during  the  night  from  sixty  to  a 
hundred  metres  in  rear  of  the  position  we  had  held,  and 
were  filled  by  the  Twenty-ninth  Chasseur  Regiment,  which 
replaced  us. 

Very  cunningly  these  trenches  were  arranged.  They  were 
deep  and  narrow,  fully  seven  feet  deep  and  barely  a  yard 
wide.  At  every  favorable  point,  on  every  little  rise  in  the 
ground,  a  salient  had  been  constructed,  projecting  out 
from  the  main  trench  ten  to  fifteen  metres,  protected  by 
heavy  logs,  corrugated  steel  sheets,  and  two  to  three  feet  of 
dirt.  Each  side  of  the  salients  bristled  with  machine-guns. 
Any  attack  upon  this  position  would  be  bound  to  fail, 
owing  to  the  intense  volume  of  fire  that  could  be  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  flanks  of  the  enemy. 

To  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  the  Engineer  Corps  had 
dug  rows  of  cup-shaped  bowls,  two  feet  in  diameter,  two 
feet  deep,  leaving  but  a  narrow  wedge  of  dirt  between  each 
two;  and  in  the  centre  of  each  bowl  was  placed  a  six-pointed 
twisted  steel  *  porcupine.'  This  instrument,  however  it  is 
placed,  always  presents  a  sharp  point  right  at  you.  Five 
rows  of  these  man-traps  I  counted,  separated  by  a  thin 
wall  of  dirt  not  strong  enough  to  maintain  the  weight  of  a 


250  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

man,  so  that  any  one  who  attempted  to  rush  past  would  be 
thrown  against  the  *  porcupine '  and  be  spitted  like  a  pigeon. 
As  an  additional  precaution  a  mass  of  barbed  wire  lay  in 
rolls,  ready  to  be  placed  in  front  of  this  ouvrage,  to  make  it 
safe  against  any  surprise. 

We  marched  along,  talking  and  chatting,  discussing  this 
and  that,  without  a  care  in  the  world.  Every  one  hoped 
we  were  going  to  the  rear  to  recuperate  and  enjoy  a  good 
square  meal  and  a  good  night's  rest.  Seeger1  wanted  a  good 
wash,  he  said.  He  was  rather  dirty,  and  so  was  I.  My 
puttees  dangled  in  pieces  round  my  calves.  It  seems  I  had 
torn  them  going  through  the  German  wire  the  day  before. 
I  told  Haeffle  to  keep  his  eyes  open  for  a  good  pair  on  some 
dead  man.  He  said  he  would. 

The  company  marched  round  the  hill  we  descended  so 
swiftly  yesterday  and,  describing  a  semi-circle,  entered 
again  the  Schutzengraben  Spandau  and  marched  back  in  the 
direction  we  had  come  from.  The  trench,  however,  pre 
sented  a  different  appearance.  The  bad  places  had  been 
repaired,  the  loose  dirt  had  been  shoveled  out,  and  the  dead 
had  disappeared.  On  the  east  side  of  the  trench  an  extreme 
ly  high  parapet  had  been  built.  This  parapet  was  complete 
even  to  loop-holes  —  rather  funny-looking  loop-holes,  I 
thought;  and  when  I  looked  closer,  I  saw  that  they  were 
framed  in  by  boots!  I  reached  my  hand  into  several  of 
them  as  we  walked  along,  and  touched  the  limbs  of  dead 
men.  The  engineers,  it  seems,  in  need  of  material,  had 
placed  the  dead  Germans  on  top  of  the  ground,  feet  flush 
with  the  inside  of  the  ditch,  leaving  from  six  to  seven  inches 
between  two  bodies,  and  laying  another  body  cross-wise  on 
top  of  the  two,  spanning  the  gap  between  them.  Then  they 
had  shoveled  the  dirt  on  top  of  them,  thus  killing  two  birds 
with  one  stone. 

1  Alan  Seeger,  the  poet,  who  was  later  killed  in  battle. 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  251 

The  discovery  created  a  riot  of  excitement  among  the 
men.  Curses  intermingled  with  laughter  came  from  ahead 
of  us.  Everybody  was  tickled  by  the  ingenuity  of  our 
genie.  'They  are  marvelous!'  we  thought.  Dowd's  face 
showed  consternation,  yet  he  could  not  help  smiling.  Little 
King  was  pale  around  the  mouth,  yet  his  lips  were  twisted 
in  a  grin.  It  was  horribly  amusing. 

Every  200  metres  we  passed  groups  of  the  One  Hundred 
and  Seventieth,  on  duty  in  the  trench.  The  front  line,  they 
told  us,  was  twelve  hundred  metres  farther  east,  and  this 
trench  formed  the  second  line  for  their  regiment.  We 
entered  the  third-line  trench  of  the  Germans,  from  which 
they  ran  yesterday  to  surrender,  and  continued  marching 
in  the  same  direction  —  always  east.  Here  we  had  a  chance 
to  investigate  the  erstwhile  German  habitations. 

Exactly  forty  paces  apart,  doorways  opened  into  the 
dirt  bank,  and  from  each  of  them  fourteen  steps  descended 
at  about  forty-five  degrees  into  a  cellar-like  room.  The 
stairs  were  built  of  wood  and  the  sides  of  the  stairways  and 
the  chambers  below  were  lined  with  one-inch  pine  boards. 
These  domiciles  must  have  been  quite  comfortable  and 
safe,  but  now  they  were  choked  with  bodies.  As  we  con 
tinued  our  leisurely  way,  we  met  some  of  our  trench-clean 
ers,  and  they  recited  their  experiences  with  gusto.  The 
Germans,  they  told  us,  pointing  down  into  the  charnel- 
houses,  refused  to  come  and  give  up,  and  even  fired  at  them 
when  summoned  to  surrender.  'Then  what  did  you  do?' 
I  asked.  'Very  simple,'  answered  one.  'We  stood  on  the 
top  of  the  ground  right  above  the  door  and  hurled  grenade 
after  grenade  through  the  doorway  until  all  noise  gradually 
ceased  down  below.  Then  we  went  to  the  next  hole  and  did 
the  same  thing.  It  was  n't  at  all  dangerous,'  he  added,  'and 
it  was  very  effective.' 

We  moved  but  slowly  along  the  trench,  and  every  once 


252  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

in  a  while  there  was  a  halt  while  some  of  the  men  investi 
gated  promising  'prospects/  where  the  holes  packed  with 
dead  Germans  held  out  some  promise  of  loot.  Owing  to 
the  order  of  march,  the  first  company  was  the  last  one  in 
line,  and  my  section  at  the  very  end.  The  head  of  the  col 
umn  was  the  fourth  company,  then  the  third,  then  the 
second,  and  then  we.  By  the  time  my  section  came  to  any 
hole  holding  out  hopes  of  souvenirs,  there  was  nothing 
left  for  us.  Yet  I  did  find  a  German  officer  with  a  new  pair 
of  puttees,  and,  hastily  unwinding  them,  I  discarded  my 
own  and  put  on  the  new  ones.  As  I  bound  them  on  I  no 
ticed  the  name  on  the  tag — 'Hindenburg.'  I  suppose 
that  name  stands  for  quality  with  the  Boches. 

We  left  the  trench  and  swung  into  another  communica 
tion  trench,  going  to  the  left,  still  in  an  easterly  direction, 
straight  on  toward  the  Butte  de  Souain.  That  point,  we 
knew,  was  still  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  and  very 
quickly  they  welcomed  us.  Shells  came  shrieking  down  — 
105mm.,  150,  210,  and  250.  It 's  very  easy  to  tell  when  you 
are  close  to  them,  even  if  you  can't  see  a  thing.  When  a  big 
shell  passes  high,  it  sounds  like  a  white-hot  piece  of  iron 
suddenly  doused  in  cold  water;  but  when  it  gets  close,  the 
sw-i-ish  suddenly  rises  in  a  high  crescendo,  a  shriek  punc 
tuated  by  a  horrible  roar.  The  uniformity  of  movement  as 
the  men  ducked  was  beautiful  —  and  they  all  did  it ! 
One  moment  there  was  a  line  of  gray  helmets  bobbing  up 
and  down  the  trenches  as  the  line  plodded  on;  and  the  next 
instant  one  could  see  only  a  line  of  black  canvas  close  to  the 
ground,  as  every  man  ducked  and  shifted  his  shoulder- 
sack  over  his  neck.  My  sack  had  been  blown  to  pieces 
when  I  was  buried,  and  I  felt  uncomfortably  handicapped, 
with  only  my  musette  for  protection  against  steel  splinters. 

About  a  mile  from  where  we  entered  this  boyau  we  came 
to  a  temporary  halt,  then  went  on  once  more.  The  fourth 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  253 

company  had  come  to  a  halt,  and  we  squeezed  past  them 
as  we  marched  along.  Every  man  of  them  had  his  shovel 
out  and  had  commenced  digging  a  niche  for  himself.  We 
passed  the  fourth  company,  then  the  third,  then  the  second, 
and  finally  the  first,  second,  and  third  sections  of  our  own 
company.  Just  beyond,  we  ourselves  came  to  a  halt  and, 
lining  up  one  man  to  the  metre,  started  to  organize  the 
trench  for  defensive  purposes.  From  the  other  side  of  a 
slight  ridge,  east  of  us  and  about  six  hundred  metres  away, 
came  the  sound  of  machine-guns.  Between  us  and  the 
ridge  the  Germans  were  executing  a  very  lively  feu  de  bar 
rage,  a  screen  of  fire  prohibiting  any  idea  of  sending  rein 
forcements  over  to  the  front  line. 

Attached  for  rations  to  my  section  were  the  major  of  the 
battalion,  a  captain,  and  three  sergeants  of  the  etat-major. 
Two  of  the  sergeants  were  at  the  trench  telephone,  and  I 
could  hear  them  report  the  news  to  the  officers.  *  The  Ger 
mans/  they  reported,  'are  penned  in  on  three  sides  and  are 
prevented  from  retreating  by  our  artillery.'  Twice  they 
had  attempted  to  pierce  our  line  between  them  and  the 
Butte  de  Souain,  and  twice  they  were  driven  back.  Good 
news  for  us ! 

At  10  A.M.  we  sent  three  men  from  each  section  to  the 
rear  for  the  soup.  At  about  eleven  they  reappeared  with 
steaming  marmites  of  soup,  stew,  coffee,  and  buckets  of 
wine.  The  food  was  very  good,  and  disappeared  to  the  last 
morsel. 

After  eating,  the  captains  granted  me  permission  to  walk 
along  the  ditch  back  to  the  fourth  company.  The  trench 
being  too  crowded  for  comfort,  I  walked  alongside  to  the 
second  company,  and  searched  for  my  friend,  Sergeant 
Velte.  Finally  I  found  him  lying  in  a  shell-hole,  side  by  side 
with  his  adjutant  and  Sergeant  Morin.  All  three  were  dead, 
torn  to  pieces  by  one  shell  shortly  after  we  had  passed  them 


254  A    SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

in  the  morning.  At  the  third  company  they  reported  that 
Second  Lieutenant  Sweeny  had  been  shot  through  the 
chest  by  a  lost  ball  that  morning.  Hard  luck  for  Sweeny ! 
The  poor  devil  had  just  been  nominated  sous-lieutenant  at 
the  request  of  the  French  Embassy  in  Washington;  and 
when  he  was  attached  as  supernumerary  to  the  third  com 
pany  we  all  had  hopes  that  he  would  have  a  chance  to 
prove  his  merit. 

In  the  fourth  company  also  the  losses  were  severe.  The 
part  of  the  trench  occupied  by  the  three  companies  was 
directly  enfiladed  by  the  German  batteries  on  the  Butte  de 
Souain,  and  every  little  while  a  shell  would  fall  square  into 
the  ditch  and  take  toll  from  the  occupants.  Our  company 
was  fully  a  thousand  metres  nearer  to  these  batteries,  but 
the  trenches  we  occupied  presented  a  three-quarter  face  to 
the  fire,  and  consequently  were  ever  so  much  harder  to  hit. 
Even  then,  when  I  got  back  I  found  four  men  hors  de  com 
bat  in  the  fourth  section.  In  my  section  two  niches  were 
demolished  without  any  one  being  hit. 

Time  dragged  slowly  until  four  in  the  afternoon,  when 
we  had  soup  again.  Many  of  the  men  built  little  fires,  and 
with  the  Erbsenwurst  they  had  found  on  dead  Germans  pre 
pared  a  very  palatable  soup  by  way  of  extra  rations. 

At  four  o'clock  sentries  were  posted  and  everybody  fell 
asleep.  A  steady  rain  was  falling,  and  to  keep  dry  we 
hooked  one  edge  of  our  tent-sheet  on  the  ground  above  the 
niche  and  put  dirt  on  top  of  it  to  hold.  Then  we  pushed 
cartridges  through  the  buttonholes  of  the  tent,  pinning 
them  into  the  side  of  the  trench,  and  forming  a  good  cover 
for  the  occupant  of  the  hole.  Thus  we  rested  until  the 
new  day  broke,  bringing  a  clear  sky  and  sunshine.  This 
day,  the  27th,  —  the  third  of  the  battle,  —  passed  without 
mishap  to  my  section.  We  spent  our  time  eating  and  sleep 
ing,  mildly  distracted  by  an  intermittent  bombardment. 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  255 

Another  night  spent  in  the  same  cramped  quarters! 
We  were  getting  weary  of  inactivity,  and  it  was  rather  hard 
work  to  keep  the  men  in  the  ditch.  They  sneaked  off  singly 
and  in  pairs,  always  heading  back  to  the  German  dug-outs, 
all  bent  on  turning  things  upside  down  in  the  hope  of  find 
ing  something  of  value  to  carry  as  a  keepsake. 

Haeffle  came  back  once  with  three  automatic  pistols,  but 
no  cartridges;  from  another  trip  he  returned  with  an  officer's 
helmet;  and  the  third  time  he  brought  triumphantly  back  a 
string  three  feet  long  of  dried  sausages.  Haeffle  always  did 
have  a  healthy  appetite,  and  it  transpired  that  on  the  way 
back  he  had  eaten  a  dozen  sausages,  more  or  less.  The  dried 
meat  had  made  him  thirsty  and  he  had  drunk  half  a  can 
teen  of  water  on  top  of  it.  The  result  was,  he  swelled  up 
like  a  poisoned  pup,  and  for  a  time  he  was  surely  a  sick 
man. 

Zinn  found  two  shiny  German  bayonets,  a  long  thin  one, 
and  one  short  and  heavy,  and  swore  he  would  pack  them 
for  a  year  if  he  had  to.  Zinn  hailed  from  Battle  Creek  and 
wanted  to  use  them  as  brush-knives  on  camping  trips  in 
the  Michigan  woods;  but  alas,  in  the  sequel  they  got  too 
heavy  and  were  dropped  along  the  road.  One  man  found  a 
German  pipe  with  a  three-foot  soft-rubber  stem,  which  he 
intended  sending  to  his  brother  as  a  souvenir.  Man  and 
pipe  are  buried  on  the  slopes  of  the  Butte  de  Souain.  He 
died  that  same  evening. 

At  the  usual  time  —  4  P.M.  — •  we  had  soup,  and  just 
after  that,  came  the  order  to  get  ready.  Looking  over  the 
trench,  we  watched  the  fourth  company  form  in  the  open 
back  of  the  ditch  and,  marching  past  us  in  an  oblique  direc 
tion,  disappear  round  a  spur  of  wooded  hill.  The  third 
company  followed  at  four  hundred  metres  distance,  then 
the  second;  and  as  they  passed  out  of  sight  around  the  hill, 
we  jumped  out,  and,  forming  in  line  sections  at  thirty- 


256  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

metre  intervals,  each  company  four  hundred  metres  in  the 
rear  of  the  one  ahead,  we  followed,  arme  a  la  bretelle. 

We  were  quite  unobserved  by  the  enemy,  and  marched 
the  length  of  the  hill  for  three  fourths  of  a  kilometre,  keep 
ing  just  below  the  crest.  Above  us  sailed  four  big  French 
battle-planes  and  some  small  aero  scouts,  on  the  lookout  for 
enemy  aircraft.  For  a  while  it  seemed  as  if  we  should  not 
be  discovered,  and  the  command  was  given  to  lie  down. 
From  where  we  lay  we  could  observe  clearly  the  ensuing 
scrap  in  the  air,  and  it  was  worth  watching.  Several  Ger 
man  planes  had  approached  close  to  our  lines,  but  were  dis 
covered  by  the  swift-flying  scouts.  Immediately  the  little 
fellows  returned  with  the  news  to  the  big  planes,  and  we 
watched  the  monster  biplanes  mount  to  the  combat.  In  a 
wide  circle  they  swung,  climbing,  climbing  higher  and 
higher,  and  then  headed  in  a  bee-line  straight  toward  the 
German  Tauben.  As  they  approached  within  range  of  each 
other,  we  saw  little  clouds  appear  close  to  the  German 
planes,  some  in  front,  some  over  them,  and  others  behind; 
and  then,  after  an  interval,  the  report  of  the  32mm.  guns 
mounted  on  our  battle-planes  floated  down  to  us,  immedi 
ately  followed  like  an  echo  by  the  crack  of  the  bursting 
shell.  Long  before  the  Germans  could  get  within  effective 
range  for  their  machine-guns,  they  were  peppered  by  our 
planes  and  ignominiously  forced  to  beat  a  retreat.  One 
Albatross  seemed  to  be  hit.  He  staggered  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  then  dipped  forward,  and,  standing  straight  on 
his  nose,  dropped  like  a  stone  out  of  sight  behind  the  forest 
crowning  the  hill. 

Again  we  moved  on,  and  shortly  arrived  at  the  southern 
spur  of  the  hill.  Here  the  company  made  a  quarter  turn  to 
the  left,  and  in  the  same  formation  began  the  ascent  of  the 
hill.  The  second  company  was  just  disappearing  into  the 
scrubby  pine  forest  on  top.  We  entered  also,  continued  on 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  257 

to  the  top,  and  halted  just  below  the  crest.  The  captain 
called  the  officers  and  sergeants,  and,  following  him,  we 
crawled  on  our  stomachs  up  to  the  highest  point  and  looked 
over. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  panorama  that  spread  before  us ! 
The  four  thin  ranks  of  the  second  company  seemed  to 
stagger  drunkenly  through  a  sea  of  green  fire  and  smoke. 
One  moment  gaps  showed  in  the  lines,  only  to  be  closed 
again  as  the  rear  files  spurted.  Undoubtedly  they  ran  at 
top  speed,  but  to  us  watchers  they  seemed  to  crawl,  and 
at  times  almost  to  stop.  Mixed  in  with  the  dark  green  of 
the  grass  covering  the  valley  were  rows  of  lighter  color, 
telling  of  the  men  who  fell  in  that  mad  sprint.  The  con 
tinuous  bombardment  sounded  like  a  giant  drum  beating 
an  incredibly  swift  rataplan.  Along  the  whole  length  of  our 
hill  this  curtain  of  shells  was  dropping,  leveling  the  forest 
and  seemingly  beating  off  the  very  face  of  the  hill  itself, 
clean  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley.  Owing  to  the 
proximity  of  our  troops  to  the  enemy's  batteries,  we  re 
ceived  hardly  any  support  from  our  own  big  guns,  and  the 
role  of  the  combatants  was  entirely  reversed.  The  Germans 
had  their  innings  then,  and  full  well  they  worked. 

As  the  company  descended  into  the  valley  the  pace  be 
came  slower,  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  opposite  slope 
they  halted  and  faced  back.  Owing  to  the  height  of  the 
Butte  de  Souain,  they  were  safe,  and  they  considered  that 
it  was  their  turn  to  act  as  spectators. 

As  our  captain  rose,  we  followed  and  took  our  places  in 
front  of  our  sections.  Again  I  impressed  upon  the  minds  of 
my  men  the  importance  of  following  in  a  straight  line  and 
as  close  behind  one  another  as  possible.  '  Arme  a  la  main! ' 
came  the  order,  and  slowly  we  moved  to  the  crest  and  then 
immediately  broke  into  a  dog-trot.  Instantly  we  were  en 
veloped  in  flames  and  smoke.  Hell  kissed  us  welcome! 

18 


258  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

Closely  I  watched  the  captain  for  the  sign  to  increase  our 
speed.  I  could  have  run  a  mile  in  record  time,  but  he 
plugged  steadily  along,  one,  two,  three,  four,  one,  two, 
three,  four,  — •  at  a  tempo  of  a  hundred  and  eighty  steps 
per  minute,  three  to  the  second,  —  the  regulation  tempo. 
Inwardly  I  cursed  his  insistence  upon  having  things 
reglementaires. 

As  I  looked  at  the  middle  of  his  back,  longing  for  him  to 
hurry,  I  caught  sight,  on  my  right,  of  a  shell  exploding  di 
rectly  in  the  centre  of  the  third  section.  Out  of  the  tail  of 
my  eye  I  saw  the  upper  part  of  Corporal  Keraudy's  body 
rise  slowly  into  the  air.  The  legs  had  disappeared,  and  with 
arms  outstretched  the  trunk  sank  down  on  the  corpse  of 
Varma,  the  Hindu,  who  had  marched  behind  him.  In 
stinctively,  I  almost  stopped  in  my  tracks :  Keraudy  was  a 
friend  of  mine;  but  at  the  instant  Corporal  Mettayer,  run 
ning  behind  me,  bumped  into  my  back,  and  shoved  me 
again  into  life  and  action. 

We  were  out  of  the  woods  then,  and  running  down  the 
bare  slope  of  the  hill.  A  puff  of  smoke,  red-hot,  smote  me  in 
the  face,  and  at  the  same  moment  intense  pain  shot  up  my 
jaw.  I  did  not  think  I  was  hit  seriously,  since  I  was  able  to 
run  all  right.  Some  one  in  the  second  section  intoned  the 
regimental  march,  'Allans,  giron.'  Others  took  it  up;  and 
there,  in  that  scene  of  death  and  hell,  this  song  portraying 
the  lusts  and  vices  of  the  Legion  Etrangere  became  a  very 
paean  of  enthusiasm  and  courage. 

Glancing  to  the  right,  I  saw  that  we  were  getting  too  close 
to  the  second  section,  so  I  gave  the  signal  for  a  left  oblique. 
We  bore  away  from  them  until  once  again  at  our  thirty 
paces  distance.  All  at  once  my  feet  tangled  up  in  something 
and  I  almost  fell.  It  was  long  grass !  Just  then  it  seemed  to 
grow  upon  my  mind  that  we  were  down  in  the  valley  and 
out  of  range  of  the  enemy.  Then  I  glanced  ahead,  and  not 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  259 

over  a  hundred  metres  away  I  saw  the  second  company 
lying  in  the  grass  and  watching  us  coming.  As  we  neared, 
they  shouted  little  pleasantries  at  us  and  congratulated  us 
upon  our  speed. 

'Why  this  unseemly  haste?'  one  wants  to  know. 

'You  go  to  the  devil!'  answers  Haeffle. 

'Merci,  mon  ami!  '  retorts  the  first;  'I  have  just  come 
through  his  back  kitchen.' 

Counting  my  section,  I  missed  Dubois,  St.  Hilaire,  and 
Schueli.  Collette,  Joe  told  me,  was  left  on  the  hill. 

The  company  had  lost  two  sergeants,  one  corporal,  and 
thirteen  men  coming  down  that  short  stretch!  We  mus 
tered  but  forty-five  men,  all  told.  One,  Sergeant  Terisien, 
had  commanded  my  section,  the  'American  Section,'  for 
four  months,  but  was  transferred  to  the  fourth.  From 
where  we  rested  we  could  see  him  slowly  descending  the 
hill,  bareheaded  and  with  his  right  hand  clasping  his  left 
shoulder.  He  had  been  severely  wounded  in  the  head,  and 
his  left  arm  was  nearly  torn  off  at  the  shoulder.  Poor  devil! 
He  was  a  good  comrade  and  a  good  soldier.  Just  before  the 
war  broke  out  he  had  finished  his  third  enlistment  in  the 
Legion,  and  was  in  line  for  a  discharge  and  pension  when 
he  died. 

Looking  up  the  awful  slope  we  had  just  descended,  we 
could  see  the  bodies  of  our  comrades,  torn  and  mangled 
and  again  and  again  kicked  up  into  the  air  by  the  shells. 
For  two  days  and  nights  the  hellish  hail  continued  to  beat 
upon  that  blood-soaked  slope,  until  we  finally  captured 
the  Butte  de  Souain  and  forced  an  entire  regiment  of 
Saxons  to  the  left  of  the  butte  to  capitulate. 

Again  we  assembled  in  column  of  fours,  and  this  time 
began  the  climb  up  hill.  Just  then  I  happened  to  think  of 
the  blow  I  had  received  under  the  jaw,  and,  feeling  of  the 
spot,  discovered  a  slight  wound  under  my  left  jaw-bone. 


260  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

Handing  my  rifle  to  a  man,  I  pressed  slightly  upon  the  sore 
spot  and  pulled  a  steel  splinter  out  of  the  wound.  A  very 
thin,  long  sliver  of  steel  it  was,  half  the  diameter  of  a  dime 
and  not  more  than  a  dime's  thickness,  but  an  inch  and  a 
hah*  long.  The  metal  was  still  hot  to  the  touch.  The  scratch 
continued  bleeding  freely,  but  I  did  not  bandage  it  at  the 
time  because  I  felt  sure  of  needing  my  emergency  dressing 
farther  along. 

Up  near  the  crest  of  the  hill  we  halted  in  an  angle  of  the 
woods  and  lay  down  alongside  the  One  Hundred  and 
Seventy-Second  Regiment  of  infantry.  They  had  made 
the  attack  in  this  direction  on  the  25th,  but  had  been 
severely  checked  at  this  point.  Infantry  and  machine-gun 
fire  sounded  very  close,  and  lost  bullets  by  the  hundreds 
flicked  through  the  branches  overhead.  The  One  Hundred 
and  Seventy-Second  informed  us  that  a  battalion  of  the 
Premier  fitranger  had  entered  the  forest  and  was  at  that 
moment  storming  a  position  to  our  immediate  left.  Through 
the  trees  showed  lights,  brighter  than  day,  cast  from  hun 
dreds  of  German  magnesium  candles  shot  into  the  air. 

Our  officers  were  grouped  with  those  of  the  other  regi 
ment,  and  after  a  very  long  conference  they  separated,  each 
to  his  command.  Our  captain  called  the  officers  and  sub 
alterns  of  the  company  together,  and  in  terse  sentences  ex 
plained  to  us  our  positions  and  the  object  of  the  coming 
assault.  It  was  to  be  a  purely  local  affair,  and  the  point  was 
the  clearing  of  the  enemy  from  the  hill  we  were  on.  On  a 
map  drawn  to  scale  he  pointed  out  the  lay  of  the  land. 

It  looked  to  me  a  hard  proposition.  Imagine  a  tooth 
brush  about  a  mile  long  and  three  eighths  to  one  hah0  a  mile 
wide.  The  back  is  formed  by  the  summit  of  the  hill,  which 
is  densely  wooded,  and  the  hairs  of  the  brush  are  repre 
sented  by  four  little  ridges  rising  from  the  valley  we  had 
just  crossed,  each  one  crowned  with  strips  of  forest  and 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  261 

uniting  with  the  main  ridge  at  right  angles.  Between  each 
two  lines  of  hair  are  open  spaces,  from  one  hundred  to  one 
hundred  and  fifty  metres  wide.  We,  of  the  second  regi 
ment,  were  to  deliver  the  assault  parallel  with  the  hairs 
and  stretching  from  the  crest  down  to  the  valley. 

The  other  column  was  to  make  a  demonstration  from 
our  left,  running  a  general  course  at  right  angles  to  ours. 
The  time  set  was  eight  o'clock  at  night. 

Returning  to  our  places,  we  informed  the  men  of  what 
they  were  in  for.  While  we  were  talking,  we  noticed  a  group 
of  men  come  from  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  form  into 
company  formation,  and  we  could  hear  them  answer  to 
the  roll-call.  I  went  over  and  peered  at  them.  On  their 
coat-collars  I  saw  the  gilt  No.  1.  It  was  the  Premier 
Etr  anger. 

As  the  roll-call  proceeded,  I  wondered.  The  sergeant  was 
deciphering  with  difficulty  the  names  from  his  little  carnet, 
and  response  after  response  was,  'Mort.'  Once  in  a  while 
the  answer  changed  to  'Mort  sur  le  champ  d'honneur,'  or  a 
brief  'Tombe.'  There  were  twenty-two  men  in  line,  not 
counting  the  sergeant  and  a  corporal,  who  in  rear  of  the 
line  supported  himself  precariously  on  two  rifles  which 
served  him  as  crutches.  Two  more  groups  appeared  back  of 
this  one,  and  the  same  proceeding  was  repeated.  As  I  stood 
near  the  second  group  I  could  just  catch  the  responses  of 
the  survivors.  *  Duvivier ' :  ' Present.'  —  '  Selonti ' :  '  Pres- 
net.'  —  'Boismort ':  'Tombe.'  —  'Herkis':  'Mort.'  —  'Car 
ney  ':  'Mort.'  —  'MacDonald':  'Present.'  —  'Farnsworth': 
'Mort  sur  le  champ  d'honneur,'  responded  MacDonald. 
Several  of  the  men  I  had  known,  Farnsworth  among  them. 
One  officer,  a  second  lieutenant,  commanded  the  remains 
of  the  battalion.  Seven  hundred  and  fifty  men,  he  informed 
me,  had  gone  in  an  hour  ago,  and  less  than  two  hundred 
came  back. 


262  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

'Ah,  mon  ami,'  he  told  me,  Vest  bien  chaud  dans  le 
bois.' 

Quietly  they  turned  into  column  of  fours  and  disappeared 
in  the  darkness.  Their  attack  had  failed.  Owing  to  the 
protection  afforded  by  the  trees,  our  aerial  scouts  had 
failed  to  gather  definite  information  of  the  defenses  con 
structed  in  the  forest,  and  owing  also  to  the  same  cause, 
our  previous  bombardment  had  been  ineffective. 

It  was  our  job  to  remedy  this.  One  battalion  of  the  One 
Hundred  and  Seventy-Second  was  detached  and  placed  in 
line  with  us,  and  at  eight  P.M.  sharp  the  major's  whistle 
sounded,  echoed  by  that  of  our  captain. 

Quietly  we  lined  up  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  bayonets  fixed.  Quietly  each  corporal  examined 
the  rifles  of  his  men,  inspected  the  magazines,  and  saw  that 
each  chamber  also  held  a  cartridge  with  firing-pin  down. 
As  silently  as  possible  we  entered  between  the  trees,  and 
carefully  kept  in  touch  with  each  other.  It  was  dark  in 
there,  and  we  had  moved  along  some  little  distance  before 
our  eyes  were  used  to  the  blackness.  As  I  picked  my  steps  I 
prepared  myself  for  the  shock  every  man  experiences  at  the 
first  sound  of  a  volley.  Twice  I  fell  down  into  shell-holes 
and  cursed  my  clumsiness  and  that  of  some  other  fellows  to 
my  right.  'The  "Dutch"  must  be  asleep,'  I  thought,  'or 
else  they  beat  it.'  Hopefully  the  latter! 

We  were  approaching  the  farther  edge  of  the  tooth 
brush  'bristle,'  and  breathlessly  we  halted  at  the  edge  of 
the  little  open  space  before  us.  About  eighty  metres  across 
loomed  the  black  line  of  another  'row  of  hairs.' 

The  captain  and  second  section  to  our  right  moved  on 
and  we  kept  in  line,  still  slowly  and  cautiously,  carefully 
putting  one  foot  before  the  other.  Suddenly  from  the 
darkness  in  front  of  us  came  four  or  five  heavy  reports  like 
the  noise  of  a  shot-gun,  followed  by  a  long  hiss.  Into  the 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  263 

air  streamed  trails  of  sparks.  Above  our  heads  the  hiss 
ended  with  a  sharp  crack,  and  everything  stood  revealed  as 
if  it  were  broad  daylight. 

At  the  first  crash,  the  major,  the  captains  — •  everybody, 
it  seemed  to  me  —  yelled  at  the  same  time,  'En  avant! 
Pas  de  charge!'  —  and  in  full  run,  with  fixed  bayonets,  we 
flew  across  the  meadow.  As  we  neared  the  woods,  we  were 
met  by  solid  sheets  of  steel  balls.  Roar  upon  roar  came  from 
the  forest;  the  volleys  came  too  fast,  it  shot  into  my  mind, 
to  be  well  aimed.  Then  something  hit  me  on  the  chest  and 
I  fell  sprawling.  Barbed  wire !  Everybody  seemed  to  be  on 
the  ground  at  once,  crawling,  pushing,  struggling  through. 
My  rifle  was  lost  and  I  grasped  my  parabellum.  It  was 
a  German  weapon,  German  charges,  German  cartridges. 
This  time  the  Germans  were  to  get  a  taste  of  their  own 
medicine,  I  thought.  Lying  on  my  back,  I  wormed  through 
the  wire,  butting  into  the  men  in  front  of  me  and  getting 
kicked  in  the  head  by  Mettayer.  As  I  crawled  I  could 
hear  the  ping-ping  of  balls  striking  the  wire,  and  the  shrill 
moan  as  they  glanced  off  and  continued  on  their  flight. 

Putting  out  my  hand,  I  felt  loose  dirt,  and,  lying  flat, 
peered  over  the  parapet.  *  Nobody  home/  I  thought;  and 
then  I  saw  one  of  the  Collette  brothers  in  the  trench  come 
running  toward  me,  and  ahead  of  him  a  burly  Boche.  I 
could  see  Joe  make  a  one-handed  lunge  with  the  rifle,  and 
the  bayonet  showed  fully  a  foot  in  front  of  the  German's 
chest. 

Re-forming,  we  advanced  toward  the  farther  fringe  of  the 
little  forest.  Half-way  through  the  trees,  we  lay  down  flat 
on  our  stomachs,  rifle  in  right  hand,  and  slowly,  very  slowly, 
wormed  our  way  past  the  trees  into  the  opening  between 
us  and  our  goal.  Every  man  had  left  his  knapsack  in 
front,  or  else  hanging  on  the  barbed  wire,  and  we  were  in 
good  shape  for  the  work  that  lay  ahead.  But  the  sections 


264  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

and  companies  were  inextricably  mixed.  On  one  side  of  me 
crawled  a  lieutenant  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Seventy- 
Second  and  on  the  other  a  private  I  had  never  seen  before. 
Still  we  were  all  in  line,  and  when  some  one  shouted, 
'Feu  de  quatre  cartouches !  *  we  fired  four  rounds,  and  after, 
the  command  all  crawled  again  a  few  paces  nearer. 

Several  times  we  halted  to  fire,  aiming  at  the  sheets  of 
flame  spurting  toward  us.  Over  the  Germans  floated  sev 
eral  parachute  magnesium  rockets,  sent  up  by  our  own  men, 
giving  a  vivid  light  and  enabling  us  to  shoot  with  fair 
accuracy.  I  think  now  that  the  German  fire  was  too  high. 
Anyway,  I  did  not  notice  any  one  in  my  immediate  vicinity 
getting  hit.  Though  our  progress  was  slow,  we  finally 
arrived  at  the  main  wire  entanglement. 

All  corporals  in  the  French  Army  carry  wire-nippers, 
and  it  was  our  corporals'  business  to  open  a  way  through 
the  entanglement.  Several  men  to  my  right  I  could  see 
one  —  he  looked  like  Mettayer — -lying  flat  on  his  back 
and,  nippers  in  hand,  snipping  away  at  the  wire  overhead, 
while  all  of  us  behind  kept  up  a  murderous  and  constant 
fire  at  the  enemy.  Mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  rifles  came 
the  stuttering  rattle  of  the  machine-guns,  at  moments 
drowned  by  the  crash  of  hand-grenades.  Our  grenadiers 
had  rather  poor  success  with  their  missiles,  however,  most 
of  them  hitting  trees  in  front  of  the  trench.  The  lieutenant 
on  my  left  had  four  grenades.  I  could  see  him  plainly. 
With  one  in  his  hand,  he  crawled  close  to  the  wire,  rolled  on 
his  back,  rested  an  instant  with  arms  extended,  both  hands 
grasping  the  grenade,  then  suddenly  he  doubled  forward 
and  back  and  sent  the  bomb  flying  over  his  head.  For  two, 
three  seconds  —  it  seemed  longer  at  the  time  —  we  lis 
tened,  and  then  came  the  roar  of  the  explosion.  He  smiled 
and  nodded  to  me,  and  again  went  through  the  same 
manoeuvre. 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  265 

In  the  meantime  I  kept  my  parabellum  going.  I  had  nine 
magazines  loaded  with  dum-dum  balls  I  had  taken  from 
some  dead  Germans,  and  I  distributed  the  balls  impartially 
between  three  creneaux  in  front  of  me.  On  my  right,  men 
were  surging  through  several  breaks  in  the  wire.  Swiftly  I 
rolled  over  and  over  toward  the  free  lane  and  went  through 
with  a  rush.  The  combat  had  become  a  hand-grenade  af 
fair.  Our  grenadiers  crawled  alongside  the  parapet  and  at 
regular  intervals  tossed  one  of  their  missiles  into  it,  while 
the  others,  shooting  over  their  heads,  potted  the  Germans 
as  they  ran  to  the  rear. 

Suddenly  the  fusillade  ceased,  and  with  a  crash,  it  seemed, 
silence  and  darkness  descended  upon  us.  The  sudden  cessa 
tion  of  the  terrific  rifle-firing  and  of  the  constant  rattling  of 
the  machine-guns  struck  one  like  a  blow.  Sergeant  Altoffer 
brought  me  some  information  about  one  of  my  men,  and 
almost  angrily  I  asked  him  not  to  shout!  'I'm  not  deaf 
yet,'  I  assured  him.  'Mon  vieux,'  he  raged,  'it's  you  who 
are  shouting!' 

I  realized  my  fault  and  apologized,  and  in  return  ac 
cepted  a  drink  of  wine  from  his  canteen. 

Finding  the  captain,  we  were  ordered  to  assemble  the 
men  and  maintain  the  trench,  and  after  much  searching  I 
found  a  few  men  of  the  section.  The  little  scrap  had  cost  us 
three  more  men.  Subiron,  Dowd,  and  Zinn  were  wounded 
and  sent  to  the  rear.  The  One  Hundred  and  Seventy- 
Second  sent  a  patrol  toward  the  farthest,  the  last  hair  of  the 
tooth-brush,  with  orders  to  reconnoitre  thoroughly.  An 
hour  passed  and  they  had  not  returned.  Twenty  minutes 
more  went  by,  still  no  patrol.  Rather  curious,  we  thought. 
No  rifle-shots  had  come  from  that  direction,  nor  any  noise 
such  as  would  be  heard  during  a  combat  with  the  bayonet. 
The  major's  patience  gave  way,  and  our  captain  received 
orders  to  send  another  patrol.  He  picked  me  and  I  chose 


266  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

King,  Delpeuch,  and  Birchler.  All  three  had  automatics  — 
King  a  parabellum,  Delpeuch  and  Birchler,  Brownings. 
They  left  rifles,  bayonets,  and  cartridge-boxes  behind, 
and  in  Indian  file  followed  me  at  a  full  run  in  an  oblique 
direction  past  the  front  of  the  company,  and,  when  hah* 
way  across  the  clearing,  following  my  example,  fell  flat  on 
the  ground.  We  rested  a  while  to  regain  our  wind  and  then 
began  to  slide  on  our  stomachs  at  right  angles  to  our  first 
course. 

We  were  extremely  careful  to  remain  silent.  Every  little 
branch  and  twig  we  moved  carefully  out  of  our  way;  with 
one  hand  extended  we  felt  of  the  ground  before  us  as  we 
hitched  ourselves  along.  So  silent  was  our  progress  that 
several  times  I  felt  in  doubt  about  any  one  being  behind  me 
and  rested  motionless  until  I  felt  the  touch  of  Delpeuch's 
hand  upon  my  foot.  After  what  seemed  twenty  minutes, 
we  again  changed  direction,  this  time  straight  toward  the 
trees  looming  close  to  us.  We  arrived  abreast  of  the  first 
row  of  trees,  and  lying  still  as  death  listened  for  sounds  of 
the  enemy.  All  was  absolutely  quiet;  only  the  branches 
rustled  overhead  in  a  light  breeze. 

A  long  time  we  lay  there,  but  heard  no  sound.  We  began 
to  feel  somewhat  creepy,  and  I  was  tempted  to  pull  my 
pistol  and  let  nine  shots  rip  into  the  damnable  stillness  be 
fore  us.  However,  I  refrained,  and  touching  my  neighbor, 
started  crawling  along  the  edge  of  the  wood.  Extreme  care 
was  necessary,  owing  to  the  numberless  branches  littering 
the  ground.  The  sweat  was  rolling  down  my  face. 

Again  we  listened  and  again  we  were  baffled  by  that 
silence.  I  was  angry  then  and  started  to  crawl  between  the 
trees.  A  tiny  sound  of  metal  scratching  upon  metal  and  I 
almost  sank  into  the  ground!  Quickly  I  felt  reassured.  It 
was  my  helmet  touching  a  strand  of  barbed  wire.  Still  no 
sound! 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  267 

Boldly  we  rose  and,  standing  behind  trees,  scanned  the 
darkness.  Over  to  our  right  we  saw  a  glimmer  of  light  and, 
walking  this  time,  putting  one  foot  carefully  before  the 
other,  moved  toward  it.  When  opposite  we  halted  and  —  I 
swore.  From  the  supposed  trench  of  the  enemy  came  the 
hoarse  voice  of  an  apparently  drunken  man,  singing  the 
chanson  'La  Riviera.'  Another  voice  offered  a  toast  to 
'La  Legion.' 

Carelessly  we  made  our  way  through  the  barbed  wire, 
crawling  under  and  stepping  over  the  strands,  jumped  over 
a  ditch,  and  looked  down  into  what  seemed  to  be  an  under 
ground  palace.  There  they  were,  — •  the  six  men  of  the  One 
Hundred  and  Seventy-Second,  —  three  of  them  lying  stiff 
and  stark  on  benches,  utterly  drunk.  Two  were  standing 
up  disputing,  and  the  singer  sat  in  an  armchair,  holding  a 
long-stemmed  glass  in  his  hand.  Close  by  him  were  several 
unopened  bottles  of  champagne  on  the  table.  Many  empty 
bottles  littered  the  floor. 

The  singer  welcomed  us  with  a  shout  and  an  open  hand, 
to  which  we,  however,  did  not  immediately  respond.  The 
heartbreaking  work  while  approaching  this  place  rankled 
in  our  minds.  The  sergeant  and  corporal  were  too  drunk  to 
be  of  any  help,  while  two  of  the  men  were  crying,  locked  in 
each  others'  arms.  Another  was  asleep,  and  our  friend  the 
singer  absolutely  refused  to  budge.  So,  after  I  had  stowed 
two  bottles  inside  my  shirt  (an  example  punctiliously  fol 
lowed  by  the  others),  we  returned. 

Leaving  Birchler  at  the  wire,  I  placed  King  in  the  middle 
of  the  clearing,  Delpeuch  near  the  edge  of  the  wood  held 
by  us,  and  then  reported.  The  captain  passed  the  word 
along  to  the  major,  and  on  the  instant  we  were  ordered  to 
fall  in,  and  in  column  of  two  marched  over  to  the  abandoned 
trench,  following  the  line  marked  by  my  men. 

As  we  entered  and  disposed  ourselves  therein,  I  noticed 


268  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

all  the  officers,  one  after  the  other,  disappear  in  the  palace. 
Another  patrol  was  sent  out  by  our  company,  and,  after 
ranging  the  country  in  our  front,  returned  safely.  That 
night  it  happened  to  be  the  second  company's  turn  to 
mount  outposts,  and  we  could  see  six  groups  of  men,  one 
corporal  and  five  men  in  each,  march  out  into  the  night 
and  somewhere,  each  in  some  favorable  spot,  they  placed 
themselves  at  a  distance  of  about  one  hundred  metres 
away  to  watch,  while  we  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

Day  came,  and  with  it  the  corvee  carrying  hot  coffee  and 
bread.  After  breakfast  another  corvee  was  sent  after  picks 
and  shovels,  and  the  men  were  set  to  work  remodeling  the 
trench,  shifting  the  parapet  to  the  other  side,  building  little 
outpost  trenches  and  setting  barbed  wire.  The  latter  job 
was  done  in  a  wonderfully  short  time,  thanks  to  German 
thoroughness,  since  for  the  stakes  to  which  the  wire  is  tied 
the  Boches  had  substituted  soft  iron  rods,  three  quarters 
of  an  inch  thick,  twisted  five  times  in  the  shape  of  a  great 
corkscrew.  This  screw  twisted  into  the  ground  exactly 
like  a  cork-puller  into  a  cork.  The  straight  part  of  the  rod, 
being  twisted  upon  itself  down  and  up  again  every  ten 
inches,  formed  six  or  seven  small  round  loops  in  a  height  of 
about  five  feet.  Into  these  eyes  the  barbed  wire  was  laid 
and  solidly  secured  with  short  lengths  of  tying  wire.  First 
cutting  the  tying  wire,  we  lifted  the  barbed  wire  out  of  the 
eyes,  shoved  a  small  stick  through  one,  and,  turning  the 
rod  with  the  leverage  of  the  stick,  unscrewed  it  out  of  the 
ground  and  then,  reversing  the  process,  screwed  it  in  again. 
The  advantage  of  this  rod  is  obvious.  When  a  shell  falls 
in  the  midst  of  this  wire  protection,  the  rods  are  bent  and 
twisted,  but  unless  broken  off  short  they  always  support 
the  wire,  and  even  after  a  severe  bombardment  present  a 
serious  obstacle  to  the  assaulters.  In  such  cases  wooden 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  269 

posts  are  blown  to  smithereens  by  the  shells,  and  when 
broken  off  let  the  wire  fall  flat  to  the  ground. 

As  I  was  walking  up  and  down,  watching  the  work,  I 
noticed  a  large  box,  resting  bottom  up  in  a  deep  hole  open 
ing  from  the  trench.  Dragging  the  box  out  and  turning  it 
over,  I  experienced  a  sudden  flutter  of  the  heart.  There, 
before  my  astonished  eyes,  resting  upon  a  little  platform  of 
boards,  stood  a  neat  little  centrifugal  pump  painted  green, 
and  on  the  base  of  it  in  raised  iron  letters  I  read  the  words, 
'Byron  Jackson,  San  Francisco.'  I  felt  queer  at  the  stom 
ach  for  an  instant.  San  Francisco !  my  home  town !  Before 
my  eyes  passed  pictures  of  Market  Street  and  the  'Park/ 
In  fancy  I  was  again  one  of  the  Sunday  crowd  at  the  Cliff 
House.  How  came  this  pump  so  far  from  home?  Many 
times  I  had  passed  the  very  place  where  it  was  made.  How, 
I  wonder,  did  the  Boche  get  this  pump?  Before  the  war,  or 
through  Holland?  A  California-built  pump  to  clean  water 
out  of  German  trenches,  in  France!  It  was  astonishing! 
With  something  like  reverence  I  put  the  pump  back  again, 
and,  going  to  my  place  in  the  trench,  dug  out  one  of  my 
bottles  of  champagne  and  stood  treat  to  the  crowd.  Some 
how,  I  felt  almost  happy. 

As  I  continued  my  rounds  I  came  upon  a  man  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  ditch,  surrounded  by  naked  branches,  busy 
cutting  them  into  two-foot  lengths  and  tying  them  together 
in  the  shape  of  a  cross.  I  asked  him  how  many  he  was 
making,  and  he  told  me  that  he  expected  to  work  all  day  to 
supply  the  crosses  needed  along  one  battalion  front.  French 
and  German  were  treated  alike,  he  assured  me.  There  was 
absolutely  no  difference  in  the  size  of  the  crosses. 

As  we  worked,  soup  arrived,  and  when  that  was  disposed 
of,  the  men  rested  for  some  hours.  We  were  absolutely  un 
molested  except  by  our  officers. 

But  at  one  o'clock  that  night  we  were  again  assembled  in 


270  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

marching  kit,  each  man  with  an  extra  pick  or  shovel,  and 
marched  along  parallel  with  our  trench  to  the  summit  of 
the  butte.  There  we  installed  ourselves  in  the  main  line, 
out  of  which  the  Germans  were  driven  by  the  One  Hundred 
and  Seventy-Second.  There  was  no  work  of  any  kind  to 
be  done,  and  quickly  we  found  some  dry  wood,  built  small 
fires,  and  with  the  material  found  in  dug-outs  brewed  some 
really  delightful  beverages.  Mine  was  a  mixture  of  wine 
and  water  out  of  HaefHe's  canteen,  judiciously  blended 
with  chocolate. 

The  weather  was  delightful,  and  we  spent  the  afternoon 
lying  in  sunny  spots,  shifting  once  in  a  while  out  of  the 
encroaching  shade  into  the  warm  rays.  We  had  no  idea 
where  the  Germans  were  —  somewhere  in  front,  of  course, 
but  just  how  far  or  how  near  mattered  little  to  us.  Any 
how,  the  One  Hundred  and  Seventy-Second  was  fully  forty 
metres  nearer  to  them  than  we  were,  and  we  could  see  and 
hear  the  first-line  troops  picking  and  shoveling  their  way 
into  the  ground. 

Little  King  was,  as  usual,  making  the  round  of  the  com 
pany,  trying  to  find  some  one  to  build  a  fire  and  get  water 
if  he,  King,  would  furnish  the  chocolate.  He  found  no 
takers  and  soon  he  laid  himself  down,  muttering  about  the 
laziness  of  the  outfit. 

Just  as  we  were  dozing  deliciously,  an  agonized  yell 
brought  every  soldier  to  his  feet.  Rushing  toward  the 
cry,  I  found  a  man  sitting  on  the  ground,  holding  his  leg 
below  the  knee  with  both  hands,  and  moaning  as  he  rocked 
back  and  forth,  *Je  suis  blesse!  Je  suis  blesse!'  Brushing 
his  hands  aside,  I  examined  his  leg.  There  was  no  blood. 
I  took  off  the  puttee,  rolled  up  his  trousers,  and  discovered 
no  sign  of  a  wound.  On  my  asking  the  man  again  where  the 
wound  was,  he  passed  his  hand  over  a  small  red  spot  on  his 
shin.  Just  then  another  man  picked  up  a  small  piece  of 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  271 

shell,  and  then  the  explanation  dawned  upon  me.  The 
Germans  were  shooting  at  our  planes  straight  above  us;  a 
bit  of  shell  had  come  down  and  hit  our  sleeper  on  the  shin- 
bone.  Amid  a  gale  of  laughter  he  limped  away  to  a  more 
sympathetic  audience. 

Several  more  pieces  of  iron  fell  near  us.  Some  fragments 
were  no  joking  matter,  being  the  entire  rear  ends  of  three- 
inch  shells,  weighing,  I  should  think,  fully  seven  pounds. 

At  4  P.M.  the  soup  corvee  arrived.  Besides  the  usual  soup 
we  had  roast  mutton,  one  small  slice  per  man,  and  a  mix 
ture  of  white  beans,  rice,  and  string  beans.  There  was 
coffee,  and  one  cup  of  wine  per  man,  and,  best  of  all, 
tobacco.  As  we  munched  our  food,  our  attention  was  at 
tracted  to  the  sky  above  by  an  intense  cannonade  directed 
against  several  of  our  aeroplanes  sailing  east.  As  we  looked, 
more  and  more  of  our  war-birds  appeared.  Whipping  out 
my  glasses,  I  counted  fifty-two  machines.  Another  man 
counted  sixty.  Haeffle  had  it  a  hundred.  The  official  report 
next  day  stated  fifty-nine.  They  were  flying  very  high  and 
in  very  open  formation,  winging  due  east.  The  shells  were 
breaking  ahead  of  them  and  between  them.  The  heaven 
was  studded  with  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  beautiful 
little  round  grayish  clouds,  each  one  the  nimbus  of  a  burst 
ing  shell.  With  my  prismatics  glued  to  my  eyes,  I  watched 
closely  for  one  falling  bird.  Though  it  seemed  incredible  at 
the  moment,  not  one  faltered  or  turned  back.  Due  east 
they  steered,  into  the  red  painted  sky.  For  several  min 
utes  after  they  had  sailed  out  of  my  sight  I  could  still  hear 
the  roar  of  the  guns.  Only  one  machine,  the  official  report 
said,  was  shot  down,  and  that  one  fell  on  the  return  trip. 

Just  before  night  fell,  we  all  set  to  work  cutting  pine 
branches,  and  with  the  tips  prepared  soft  beds  for  our 
selves.  Sentries  were  placed,  one  man  per  section,  and  we 
laid  ourselves  down  to  sleep.  The  night  passed  quietly; 


272  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

again  the  day  started  with  the  usual  hot  coffee  and  bread. 
Soup  and  stew  at  10  A.M.,  and  the  same  again  at  4  P.M.  One 
more  quiet  night,  and  quiet  the  following  day.  We  were 
becoming  somewhat  restless  with  the  monotony,  but  were 
cheered  by  the  captain.  That  night,  he  told  us,  we  should 
return  to  Suippes,  and  there  reform  the  regiment  and  rest. 
The  programme  sounded  good,  but  I  felt  very  doubtful, 
we  had  heard  the  same  tale  so  many  times  and  so  many 
times  we  had  been  disappointed.  Each  day  the  corvees  had 
brought  the  same  news  from  the  kitchen.  At  least  twenty 
times  different  telephonists  and  agents  de  liaison  had 
brought  the  familiar  story.  The  soup  corvees  assured  us 
that  the  drivers  of  the  rolling  kitchens  had  orders  to  hitch 
up  and  pull  out  toward  Souain  and  Suippes.  The  tele 
phonists  had  listened  to  the  order  transmitted  over  the 
wires.  The  agents  de  liaison  had  overheard  the  major  tell 
ing  other  officers  that  he  had  received  marching  orders, 
and,  'ma  foil  each  time  each  one  was  wrong!'  So,  after 
all,  I  was  not  much  disappointed  when  the  order  came  to 
unmake  the  sacks. 

We  stayed  that  night  and  all  day,  and  when  the  order  to 
march  the  next  evening  came,  all  of  us  were  surprised, 
including  the  captain.  I  was  with  the  One  Hundred  and 
Seventy-Second,  having  some  fun  with  a  little  Belgian.  I 
had  come  upon  him  in  the  dark  and  had  watched  him,  in 
growing  wonder  at  his  actions.  There  he  was,  stamping 
up  and  down,  every  so  often  stopping,  shaking  clenched 
fists  in  the  air,  and  spouting  curses.  I  asked  him  what  was 
the  matter.  'Rien,  mon  sergent/  he  replied.  'Je  m'excite.' 
'Pourquoi?'  I  demanded.  'Ah,'  he  told  me,  'look,'  — 
pointing  out  toward  the  German  line,  —  'out  there  lies  my 
friend,  dead,  with  three  pounds  of  my  chocolate  in  his 
musette,  and  when  I  'm  good  and  mad,  I  'm  going  out  to  get 
it! '  I  hope  he  got  it! 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION  273 

That  night  at  seven  o'clock  we  left  the  hill,  marched 
through  Souain  four  miles  to  Suippes,  and  sixteen  miles 
farther  on,  at  St.  Hilaire,  we  camped.  A  total  of  twenty- 
six  miles  for  the  day. 

At  Suippes  the  regiment  passed  in  parade  march  before 
some  officer  of  the  staff,  and  we  were  counted :  eight  hun 
dred  and  fifty-two  in  the  entire  regiment,  out  of  three 
thousand  two  hundred  who  entered  the  attack  on  the  25th 
of  September! 


19 


THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES 

BY  MEREDITH    NICHOLSON 

NOTHING  was  ever  funnier  than  Barton's  election  to  the 
City  Council.  However,  it  occurs  to  me  that,  if  I  'm  going 
to  speak  of  it  at  all,  I  may  as  well  tell  the  whole  story. 

At  the  University  Club,  where  a  dozen  of  us  have  met  for 
luncheon  every  business  day  for  many  years,  Barton's 
ideas  on  the  subject  of  municipal  reform  were  always  re 
ceived  in  the  most  contumelious  fashion.  We  shared  his 
rage  that  things  were  as  they  were,  but  as  practical  business 
men  we  knew  that  there  was  no  remedy.  A  city,  Barton 
held,  should  be  conducted  like  any  other  corporation.  Its 
affairs  are  so  various,  and  touch  so  intimately  the  comfort 
and  security  of  all  of  us,  that  it  is  imperative  that  they  be 
administered  by  servants  of  indubitable  character  and 
special  training.  He  would  point  out  that  a  citizen's  rights 
and  privileges  are  similar  to  those  of  a  stockholder,  and 
that  taxes  are  in  effect  assessments  to  which  we  submit 
only  in  the  belief  that  the  sums  demanded  are  necessary 
to  the  wise  handling  of  the  public  business;  that  we  should 
be  as  anxious  for  dividends  in  the  form  of  efficient  and 
economical  service  as  we  are  for  cash  dividends  in  other 
corporations. 

There  is  nothing  foolish  or  unreasonable  in  these  notions; 
but  most  of  us  are  not  as  ingenious  as  Barton,  or  as  re 
sourceful  as  he  in  finding  means  of  realizing  them. 

Barton  is  a  lawyer  and  something  of  a  cynic.  I  have  nev 
er  known  a  man  whose  command  of  irony  equaled  his.  He 
usually  employed  it,  however,  with  perfect  good-nature, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  ruffle  him.  In  the  court-room  I 


THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES       275 

have  seen  him  the  target  for  attacks  by  a  formidable  array 
of  opposing  counsel,  and  have  heard  him  answer  an  hour's 
argument  in  an  incisive  reply  compressed  into  ten  minutes. 
His  suggestions  touching  municipal  reforms  we  dismissed 
as  impractical,  which  was  absurd,  for  Barton  is  essentially 
a  practical  man,  as  his  professional  successes  clearly  proved 
before  he  was  thirty. 

He  maintained  that  one  capable  man,  working  alone, 
could  revolutionize  a  city's  government  if  he  set  about  it 
in  the  right  spirit;  and  he  manifested  the  greatest  scorn 
for  *  movements,'  committees  of  one  hundred,  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  had  no  great  confidence  in  the  mass  of 
mankind  or  in  the  soundness  of  the  majority.  His  ideas 
were,  we  thought,  often  fantastic,  but  it  could  never  be 
said  that  he  lacked  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  He  once 
assembled  round  a  mahogany  table  the  presidents  of  the 
six  principal  banks  and  trust  companies  in  our  town,  and 
laid  before  them  a  plan  by  which,  through  the  smothering 
of  the  city's  credit,  a  particularly  vicious  administration 
might  be  brought  to  terms.  The  city  finances  were  in  a 
bad  way,  and,  as  the  result  of  a  policy  of  wastefulness  and 
shortsightedness,  the  administration  was  constantly  seek 
ing  temporary  loans,  which  the  local  banks  were  expected 
to  carry.  Barton  dissected  the  municipal  budget  before 
the  financiers,  and  proposed  that,  as  another  temporary 
accommodation  was  about  to  be  asked,  they  put  the  screws 
on  the  mayor  and  demand  that  he  immediately  force  the 
resignations  of  all  his  important  appointees  and  replace 
them  with  men  to  be  designated  by  three  citizens  to  be 
named  by  the  bankers.  Barton  had  carefully  formulated 
the  whole  matter,  and  he  presented  it  with  his  usual  clarity 
and  effectiveness;  but  rivalry  between  the  banks  for  the 
city's  business,  and  fear  of  incurring  the  displeasure  of 
some  of  their  individual  depositors  who  were  closely  allied 


276  THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES 

with  the  bosses  of  the  bi-partisan  machine,  caused  the 
scheme  to  be  rejected.  Our  lunch-table  strategy  board  was 
highly  amused  by  Barton's  failure,  which  was  just  what  we 
had  predicted. 

Barton  accepted  his  defeat  with  equanimity  and  spoke 
kindly  of  the  bankers  as  good  men  but  deficient  in  courage. 
But  in  the  primaries  the  following  spring  he  got  himself 
nominated  for  city  councilman.  No  one  knew  just  how  he 
had  accomplished  this.  Of  course,  as  things  go  in  our 
American  cities,  no  one  qualified  for  membership  in  a  uni 
versity  club  is  eligible  for  any  municipal  office,  and  no  man 
of  our  acquaintance  had  ever  before  offered  himself  for  a 
position  soiled  through  many  years  by  ignoble  use. 

Even  more  amazing  than  Barton's  nomination  was  Bar 
ton's  election.  Our  councilmen  are  elected  at  large,  and 
we  had  assumed  that  any  strength  he  might  develop  in  the 
more  prosperous  residential  districts  would  be  overbal 
anced  by  losses  in  industrial  neighborhoods.  The  results 
proved  to  be  quite  otherwise.  Barton  ran  his  own  cam 
paign.  He  made  no  speeches,  but  spent  the  better  part  of 
two  months  personally  appealing  to  mechanics  and  laborers, 
usually  in  their  homes  or  on  their  doorsteps.  He  was  at 
pains  to  keep  out  of  the  newspapers,  and  his  own  party 
organization  (he  is  a  Republican)  gave  him  only  the  most 
grudging  support. 

We  joked  him  a  good  deal  about  his  election  to  an  office 
that  promised  nothing  to  a  man  of  his  character  but  annoy 
ance  and  humiliation.  His  associates  on  the  Council  were 
machine  men,  who  had  no  knowledge  whatever  of  enlight 
ened  methods  of  conducting  cities.  The  very  terminology 
in  which  municipal  government  is  discussed  by  the  in 
formed  was  as  strange  to  them  as  Sanskrit.  His  Republican 
colleagues  cheerfully  ignored  him,  and  shut  him  out  of 
their  caucuses;  the  Democrats  resented  his  appearance  in 


THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES       277 

the  Council  chamber  as  an  unwarranted  intrusion  —  'al 
most  an  indelicacy/  to  use  Barton's  own  phrase. 

The  biggest  joke  of  all  was  Barton's  appointment  to  the 
chairmanship  of  the  Committee  on  Municipal  Art.  That 
this  was  the  only  recognition  his  associates  accorded  to  the 
keenest  lawyer  in  the  state,  —  a  man  possessing  a  broad 
knowledge  of  municipal  methods,  gathered  in  every  part 
of  the  world,  —  was  ludicrous,  it  must  be  confessed;  but 
Barton  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed,  and  continued  to 
suffer  our  chaff  with  his  usual  good  humor. 

Barton  is  a  secretive  person,  but  we  learned  later  that 
he  had  meekly  asked  the  president  of  the  Council  to  give 
him  this  appointment.  And  it  was  conferred  upon  him 
chiefly  because  no  one  else  wanted  it,  there  being,  obviously 
*  no  thing  in'  municipal  art  discernible  to  the  bleared  eye  of 
the  average  councilman. 

About  that  time  old  Sam  Follonsby  died,  bequeathing 
half  a  million  dollars  —  twice  as  much  as  anybody  knew  he 
had  —  to  be  spent  on  fountains  and  statues  in  the  city 
parks  and  along  the  boulevards. 

The  many  attempts  of  the  administration  to  divert  the 
money  to  other  uses;  the  efforts  of  the  mayor  to  throw  the 
estate  into  the  hands  of  a  hungry  trust  company  in  which 
he  had  friends  —  these  matters  need  not  be  recited  here. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  Barton  was  equal  to  all  the  demands 
made  upon  his  legal  genius.  When  the  estate  was  settled 
at  the  end  of  a  year,  Barton  had  won  every  point.  Follons- 
by's  money  was  definitely  set  aside  by  the  court  as  a  special 
fund  for  the  objects  specified  by  the  testator,  and  Barton, 
as  the  Chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Municipal  Art,  had 
so  tied  it  up  in  a  legal  mesh  of  his  own  ingenious  contriving 
that  it  was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  subject  only  to  his 
personal  check. 

It  was  now  that  Barton,  long  irritated  by  the  indifference 


278  THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES 

of  our  people  to  the  imperative  need  of  municipal  reform, 
devised  a  plan  for  arousing  the  apathetic  electorate.  A 
philosopher,  as  well  as  a  connoisseur  in  the  fine  arts,  he 
had  concluded  that  our  whole  idea  of  erecting  statues  to 
the  good  and  noble  serves  no  purpose  in  stirring  patriotic 
impulses  in  the  bosoms  of  beholders.  There  were  plenty  of 
statues  and  not  a  few  tablets  in  our  town,  commemorating 
great-souled  men,  but  they  suffered  sadly  from  public 
neglect.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  average  statue, 
no  matter  how  splendid  the  achievements  of  its  subject,  is 
little  regarded  and  serves  only  passively  as  a  reminder  of 
public  duty. 

With  what  has  seemed  to  me  a  sublime  cynicism,  Bar 
ton  proceeded  to  spend  Follonsby's  money  in  a  manner  at 
once  novel  and  arresting.  He  commissioned  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  sculptors  in  the  country  to  design  a 
statue;  and  at  the  end  of  his  second  year  in  the  Council  (he 
had  been  elected  for  four  years) ,  it  was  set  up  on  the  new 
boulevard  that  parallels  the  river. 

His  choice  of  a  subject  had  never  been  made  known,  so 
that  curiosity  was  greatly  excited  on  the  day  of  the  unveil 
ing.  Barton  had  brought  the  governor  of  an  adjoining 
state,  who  was  just  then  much  in  the  public  eye  as  a  fighter 
of  grafters,  to  deliver  the  oration.  It  was  a  speech  with  a 
sting  to  it,  but  our  people  had  long  been  hardened  to  such 
lashings.  The  mayor  spoke  in  praise  of  the  civic  spirit 
which  had  impelled  Follonsby  to  make  so  large  a  bequest  to 
the  public;  and  then,  before  five  thousand  persons,  a  little 
schoolgirl  pulled  the  cord,  and  the  statue,  a  splendid  crea 
tion  in  heroic  bronze,  was  exposed  to  the  amazed  populace. 

I  shall  not  undertake  to  depict  the  horror  and  chagrin  of 
the  assembled  citizens  when  they  beheld,  instead  of  the 
statute  of  Follonsby,  which  they  were  prepared  to  see,  or  a 
symbolic  representation  of  the  city  itself  as  a  flower- 


THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES       279 

crowned  maiden,  the  familiar  pudgy  figure,  reproduced 
with  the  most  cruel  fidelity,  of  Mike  O'Grady,  known  as 
'Silent  Mike/  a  big  bi-partisan  boss  who  had  for  years 
dominated  municipal  affairs,  and  who  had  but  lately  gone 
to  his  reward.  The  inscription  in  itself  was  an  ironic  mas 
terstroke  :  — 

To 

MICHAEL  P.  O'GRADY 
PROTECTOR  OF  SALOONS,  FRIEND  OP  CROOKS 

FOR  TEN  YEARS  A  CITY  COUNCILMAN 
DOMINATING  THE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  MUNICIPALITY 

THIS  STATUTE  is  ERECTED 

BY  GRATEFUL  FELLOW-CITIZENS 

IN  RECOGNITION  OF  HIS  PUBLIC  SERVICES 

The  effect  of  this  was  tremendously  disturbing,  as  may 
be  imagined.  Every  newspaper  in  America  printed  a  pic 
ture  of  the  O'Grady  statue;  our  rival  cities  made  merry 
over  it  at  our  expense.  The  Chamber  of  Commerce,  in 
censed  at  the  affront  to  the  city's  good  name,  passed  reso 
lutions  condemning  Barton  in  the  bitterest  terms;  the  local 
press  howled;  a  mass  meeting  was  held  in  our  biggest  hall 
to  voice  public  indignation.  But  amid  the  clamor  Barton 
remained  calm,  pointing  to  the  stipulation  in  Follonsby's 
will  that  his  money  should  be  spent  in  memorials  of  men 
who  had  enjoyed  most  fully  the  confidence  of  the  people. 
And  as  O'Grady  had  been  permitted  for  years  to  run  the 
town  about  as  he  liked,  with  only  feeble  protests  and  oc 
casional  futile  efforts  to  get  rid  of  him,  Barton  was  able 
to  defend  himself  against  all  comers. 

Six  months  later  Barton  set  up  on  the  same  boulevard  a 
handsome  tablet  commemorating  the  services  of  a  mayor 
whose  venality  had  brought  the  city  to  the  verge  of  bank 
ruptcy,  and  who,  when  his  term  of  office  expired,  had  be 
taken  himself  to  parts  unknown.  This  was  greeted  with 
another  outburst  of  rage,  much  to  Barton's  delight.  After 


280  THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES 

a  brief  interval  another  tablet  was  placed  on  one  of  the 
river  bridges.  The  building  of  that  particular  bridge  had 
been  attended  with  much  scandal,  and  the  names  of  the 
councilmanic  committee  who  were  responsible  for  it  were 
set  forth  over  these  figures :  — 

Cost  to  the  People,  $49,000 . 00 

Cost  to  the  Council,  31,272 . 81 


Graft,  $17,727.19 

The  figures  were  exact  and  a  matter  of  record.  An  impu 
dent  prosecuting  attorney  who  had  broken  with  the  ma 
chine  had  laid  them  before  the  public  some  time  earlier; 
but  his  efforts  to  convict  the  culprits  had  been  frustrated 
by  a  judge  of  the  criminal  court  who  took  orders  from  the 
bosses.  Barton  broke  his  rule  against  talking  through  the 
newspapers  by  issuing  a  caustic  statement  imploring  the 
infuriated  councilmen  to  sue  him  for  libel  as  they  threat 
ened  to  do. 

The  city  was  beginning  to  feel  the  edge  of  Barton's  little 
ironies.  At  the  club  we  all  realized  that  he  was  animated 
by  a  definite  and  high  purpose  in  thus  flaunting  in  enduring 
bronze  the  shame  of  the  city. 

4  It  is  to  such  men  as  these,'  said  Barton,  referring  to  the 
gentlemen  he  had  favored  with  his  statue  and  tablets, 
'that  we  confide  all  our  affairs.  For  years  we  have  stupidly 
allowed  a  band  of  outlaws  to  run  our  town.  They  spend 
our  money;  they  hitch  the  saloons  and  brothels  to  the  city 
hall,  and  manage  in  their  own  way  large  affairs  that  con 
cern  all  of  us.  These  scoundrels  are  our  creatures,  and  we 
encourage  and  foster  them;  they  represent  us  and  our 
ideals,  and  it's  only  fitting  that  we  should  publish  their 
merits  to  the  world.' 

While  Barton  was  fighting  half  a  dozen  injunction  suits 
brought  to  thwart  the  further  expenditure  of  Follonsby's 


THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES       281 

money  for  memorials  of  men  of  notorious  misfeasance  or 
malfeasance,  another  city  election  rolled  round.  By  this 
time  there  had  been  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  The  people 
began  to  see  that  after  all  there  might  be  a  way  of  escape. 
Even  the  newspapers  that  had  most  bitterly  assailed  Bar 
ton  declared  that  he  was  just  the  man  for  the  mayoralty, 
and  he  was  fairly  driven  into  office  at  the  head  of  a  non- 
partisan  municipal  ticket. 

The  Boulevard  of  Rogues  we  called  it  for  a  time.  But 
after  Barton  had  been  in  the  mayor's  office  a  year  he 
dumped  the  O'Grady  statue  into  the  river,  destroyed  the 
tablets,  and  returned  to  the  Follonsby  Fund  out  of  his  own 
pocket  the  money  he  had  paid  for  them.  Three  noble 
statues  of  honest  patriots  now  adorn  the  boulevard,  and 
half  a  dozen  beautiful  fountains  have  been  distributed 
among  the  parks. 

The  Barton  plan  is,  I  submit,  worthy  of  all  emulation. 
If  every  boss-ridden,  machine-managed  American  city 
could  once  visualize  its  shame  and  folly  as  Barton  com 
pelled  us  to  do,  there  would  be  less  complaint  about  the 
general  failure  of  local  government.  There  is,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  nothing  so  preposterous  in  the  idea  of 
perpetuating  in  outward  and  visible  forms  the  public 
servants  we  humbly  permit  to  misgovern  us.  Nothing 
could  be  better  calculated  to  quicken  the  civic  impulse  in 
the  lethargic  citizen  than  the  enforced  contemplation  of  a 
line  of  statues  erected  to  the  men  he  has  allowed  to  govern 
him  and  spend  his  money. 

I  am  a  little  sorry,  though,  that  Barton  never  carried 
out  one  of  his  plans,  which  looked  to  the  planting  in  the 
centre  of  a  down-town  park  of  a  symbolic  figure  of  the 
city,  felicitously  expressed  by  a  bar-room  loafer  dozing  on 
a  beer-keg.  I  should  have  liked  it;  and  Barton  confessed  to 
me  the  other  day  that  he  was  a  good  deal  grieved  himself 
that  he  had  not  pulled  it  off ! 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

BY   KATHLEEN   NORRIS 

A  CAPPED  and  aproned  maid,  with  a  martyred  expres 
sion,  had  twice  sounded  the  dinner-bell  in  the  stately  halls 
of  Costello,  before  any  member  of  the  family  saw  fit  to  re 
spond  to  it. 

Then  they  all  came  at  once,  with  a  sudden  pounding  of 
young  feet  on  the  stairs,  an  uproar  of  young  voices,  and 
much  banging  of  doors.  Jim  and  Danny,  twins  of  fourteen, 
to  whom  their  mother  was  wont  proudly  to  allude  as  'the 
top  o'  the  line/  violently  left  their  own  sanctum  on  the 
fourth  floor,  and  coasted  down  such  banisters  as  lay  be 
tween  that  and  the  dining-room.  Teresa,  an  angel-faced 
twelve-year-old  in  a  blue  frock,  shut  The  Wide,  Wide  World 
with  a  sigh,  and  climbed  down  from  the  window-seat  in  the 
hall. 

Teresa's  pious  mother,  in  moments  of  exultation,  loved 
to  compare  and  commend  her  offspring  to  such  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs  as  their  youthful  virtues  suggested.  And 
Teresa  at  twelve  had,  as  it  were,  graduated  from  the  little 
saints,  Agnes  and  Rose  and  Cecilia,  and  was  now  com 
pared,  in  her  mother's  secret  heart,  to  the  gracious  Queen 
of  all  the  Saints.  'As  she  was  when  a  little  girl,'  Mrs.  Cos 
tello  would  add,  to  herself,  to  excuse  any  undue  boldness  in 
the  thought. 

And  indeed,  Teresa,  as  she  was  to-night,  her  blue  eyes 
still  clouded  with  Ellen  Montgomery's  sorrows,  her  curls 
tumbled  about  her  hot  cheeks,  would  have  made  a  pretty 
foil  in  a  picture  of  old  Saint  Anne. 

But  this  story  is  about  Alanna  of  the  black  eyes,  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  283 

eight  years,  the  large  irregular  mouth,  the  large  irregular 
features. 

Alanna  was  outrunning  lazy  little  Leo  —  her  senior,  but 
not  her  match  at  anything  —  on  their  way  to  the  dining- 
room.  She  was  rendering  desperate  the  two  smaller  boys, 
Frank  X.,  Jr.,  and  John  Henry  Newman  Costello,  who  stag 
gered  hopelessly  in  her  wake.  They  were  all  hungry, 
clean,  and  good-natured,  and  Alanna's  voice  led  the  other 
voices,  even  as  her  feet,  in  twinkling  patent  leather,  led 
their  feet. 

Following  the  children  came  their  mother,  fastening  the 
rich  silk  and  lace  at  her  wrists  as  she  came.  Her  handsome 
kindly  face  and  her  big  shapely  hands  were  still  moist  and 
glowing  from  soap  and  warm  water,  and  the  shining  rings 
of  black  hair  at  her  temples  were  moist,  too. 

'This  is  all  my  doin',  dad/  said  she  comfortably,  as  she 
and  her  flock  entered  the  dining-room.  'Put  the  soup  on, 
Alma.  I  'm  the  one  that  was  goin*  to  be  prompt  at  din 
ner,  too!'  she  added,  with  a  superintending  glance  for  all 
the  children,  as  she  tied  on  little  John's  napkin. 

F.  X.  Costello,  Senior,  undertaker  by  profession,  and 
mayor  by  an  immense  majority,  was  already  at  the  head 
of  the  table. 

'Late,  eh,  mommie?'  said  he,  good-naturedly. 

He  threw  his  newspaper  on  the  floor,  cast  a  householder's 
critical  glance  at  the  lights  and  the  fire,  and  pushed  his 
neatly  placed  knives  and  forks  to  right  and  left  carelessly 
with  both  his  fat  hands. 

The  room  was  brilliantly  lighted  and  warm.  A  great 
fire  roared  in  the  old-fashioned  black-marble  grate,  and 
electric  lights  blazed  everywhere.  Everything  in  the  room, 
and  in  the  house,  was  costly,  comfortable,  incongruous, 
and  hideous.  The  Costellos  were  very  rich,  and  had  been 
very  poor;  and  certain  people  were  fond  of  telling  of  the 


284  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

queer,  ridiculous  things  they  did,  in  trying  to  spend  their 
money.  But  they  were  very  happy,  and  thought  their  im 
mense,  ugly  house  was  the  finest  in  the  city,  or  in  the 
world. 

'Well,  an'  what's  the  news  on  the  Rialter?'  said  the 
head  of  the  house,  busy  with  his  soup. 

'You'll  have  the  laugh  on  me,  dad,'  his  wife  assured 
him  placidly.  'After  all  my  sayin'  that  nothing 'd  take  me 
to  Father  Crowley's  meetin'!' 

'Oh,  that  was  it?'  said  the  mayor.  'What's  he  goin'  to 
have  —  a  concert? ' 

' — And  a  fair,  too!'  supplemented  Mrs.  Costello. 
There  was  an  interval  devoted  on  her  part  to  various  bibs 
and  trays,  and  a  low  aside  to  the  waitress.  Then  she  went 
on :  'As  you  know,  I  went,  meanin'  to  beg  off.  On  account 
of  baby  bein'  so  little,  and  Leo's  cough,  and  the  paperers 
bein'  upstairs  —  and  all!  I  thought  I'd  just  make  a  dona 
tion,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  But  the  ladies  all  kind  of  hung 
back  — •  there  was  very  few  there  —  and  I  got  talkin'  —  ' 

'Well,  't  is  but  our  dooty,  after  all,'  said  the  mayor, 
nodding  approval. 

'That's  all,  Frank.  Well!  So  finally  Mrs.  Kiljohn  took 
the  coffee,  and  the  Lemmon  girls  took  the  grab-bag. 
The  Guild  will  look  out  for  the  concert,  and  I  took  one 
fancy-work  booth,  and  of  course,  the  Children  of  Mary  '11 
have  the  other,  just  like  they  always  do.' 

'Oh,  was  Grace  there? '  Teresa  was  eager  to  know. 

'Grace  was,  darlinV 

'And  we  're  to  have  the  fancy-work !  You  '11  help  us,  won't 
you,  mother?  Goody  —  I  'm  in  that ! '  exulted  Teresa. 

'  I  'm  in  that,  too ! '  echoed  Alanna  quickly. 

'A  lot  you  are,  you  baby ! '  said  Leo  unkindly. 

'You're  not  a  Child  of  Mary,  Alanna,'  Teresa  said, 
promptly  and  uneasily. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  285 

'Well  —  well  —  I  can  help!'  protested  Alanna,  putting 
up  her  lip.  '  Can't  /,  mother?  Can't  I,  mother? ' 

'You  can  help  me,  dovey,'  said  her  mother  absently. 
'I 'm  not  goin'  to  work  as  I  did  for  Saint  Patrick's  Bazaar, 
dad,  and  I  said  so!  Mrs.  O'Connell  and  Mrs.  King  said 
they'd  do  all  the  work,  if  I'd  just  be  the  nominal  head. 
Mary  Murray  will  do  us  some  pillers  —  leather  —  with 
Gibsons  and  Indians  on  them.  And  I  '11  have  Lizzie  Bayne 
up  here  for  a  month,  makin'  me  aprons  and  little  Jappy 
wrappers,  and  so  on.' 

She  paused  over  the  cutlets  and  the  chicken  pie,  which 
she  had  been  helping  with  an  amazing  attention  to  per 
sonal  preference.  The  young  Costellos  chafed  at  the  delay, 
but  their  mother's  fine  eyes  saw  them  not. 

*  Kelley  &  Moff at  ought  to  let  me  have  materials  at  half 
price,'  she  reflected  aloud.  'My  bill's  six  or  seven  hundred 
a  month ! ' 

'You  always  say  you  're  not  going  to  do  a  thing,  and  then 
get  in  and  make  more  than  any  other  booth!'  said  Dan 
proudly. 

'Oh,  not  this  year,  I  won't,'  his  mother  assured  him. 
But  in  her  heart  she  knew  she  would. 

'Aren't  you  glad  it's  fancy-work? '  said  Teresa.  'It 
does  n't  get  all  sloppy  and  mussy  like  ice-cream,  does  it, 
mother? ' 

'  Gee,  don't  you  love  fairs ! '  burst  out  Leo  rapturously. 

'  Sliding  up  and  down  the  floor  before  the  dance  begins, 
Dan,  to  work  in  the  wax? '  suggested  Jimmy,  in  pleasant 
anticipation.  'We  go  every  day  and  every  night,  don't  we, 
mother?' 

'Ask  your  father,'  said  Mrs.  Costello  discreetly. 

But  the  mayor's  attention  just  then  was  taken  by 
Alanna,  who  had  left  her  chair  to  go  and  whisper  in  his 
ear. 


286  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

'Why,  here  's  Alanna's  heart  broken! '  said  he  cheerfully, 
encircling  her  little  figure  with  a  big  arm. 

Alanna  shrank  back  suddenly  against  him,  and  put 
her  wet  cheek  on  his  shoulder. 

'Now,  whatever  is  it,  darlin'?'  wondered  her  mother, 
sympathetically  but  without  concern.  'You've  not  got  a 
pain,  have  you,  dear? ' 

'  She  wants  to  help  the  Children  of  Mary ! '  said  her  father 
tenderly.  '  She  wants  to  do  as  much  as  Tessie  does ! ' 

'Oh,  but,  dad,  she  can't!9  fretted  Teresa.  'She's  not  a 
Child  of  Mary!  She  oughtn't  to  want  to  tag  that  way. 
Now  all  the  other  girls'  sisters  will  tag ! ' 

'They  have  n't  got  sisters!'  said  Alanna,  red-cheeked  of 
a  sudden. 

'Why,  Mary  Alanna  Costello,  they  have  too!  Jean  has, 
and  Stella  has,  and  Grace  has  her  little  cousins ! '  protested 
Teresa  triumphantly. 

'Never  mind,  baby,'  said  Mrs.  Costello  hurriedly. 
'  Mother  '11  find  you  something  to  do.  There  now !  How  'd 
you  like  to  have  a  rafHe-book  on  something  —  a  chair  or  a 
piller?  And  you  could  get  all  the  names  yourself,  and  keep 
the  money  in  a  little  bag  —  ' 

'Oh,  my!  I  wish  I  could!'  said  Jim  artfully.  'Think  of 
the  last  night,  when  the  drawing  comes !  You  '11  have  the 
fun  of  looking  up  the  winning  number  in  your  book  and 
calling  it  out  in  the  hall/ 

'Would  I,  dad?'  said  Alanna  softly,  but  with  dawning 
interest. 

'And  then,  from  the  pulpit,  when  the  returns  are  all  in,' 
contributed  Dan  warmly,  'Father  Crowley  will  read  out 
your  name,  —  "  With  Mrs.  Frank  Costello's  booth  —  raffle 
of  sofa  cushion,  by  Miss  Alanna  Costello,  twenty-six  dol 
lars  and  thirty-five  cents!" 

'Oo  —  would  he,  dad?'  said  Alanna,  won  to  smiles  and 
dimples  by  this  charming  prospect. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  287 

'Of  course  he  would!'  said  her  father.  'Now  go  back  to 
your  seat,  machree,  and  eat  your  dinner.  When  mommer 
takes  you  and  Tess  to  the  matinee  to-morrow,  ask  her  to 
bring  you  in  to  me  first,  and  you  and  I'll  step  over  to 
Paul's,  and  pick  out  a  table  or  a  couch,  or  something.  Eh, 
mommie?' 

'And  what  do  you  say?  '  said  that  lady  to  Alanna,  as  the 
radiant  little  girl  went  back  to  her  chair. 

Whereupon  Alanna  breathed  a  bashful '  Thank  you,  dad,' 
into  the  ruffled  yoke  of  her  frock,  and  the  matter  was 
settled. 

The  next  day  she  trotted  beside  her  father  to  Paul's 
big  furniture  store,  and  after  long  hesitation  selected  a 
little  desk  of  shining  brass  and  dull  oak. 

'Now,'  said  her  father,  when  they  were  back  in  his 
office,  and  Teresa  and  Mrs.  Costello  were  eager  for  the 
matinee,  'here's  your  book  of  numbers,  Alanna.  And 
here,  I  '11  tie  a  pencil  and  a  string  to  it.  Don't  lose  it.  I  've 
given  you  two  hundred  numbers,  at  two  bits  each,  and 
mind,  the  minute  any  one  pays  for  one,  you  put  their 
name  down  on  the  same  line ! ' 

'Oo,  —  oo !'  said  Alanna,  in  pride.  'Two  hundred! 
That 's  lots  of  money,  is  n't  it,  dad?  That 's  eleven  or  four 
teen  dollars,  is  n't  it,  dad?' 

'That's  fifty  dollars,  goose!'  said  her  father,  making  a 
dot  with  the  pencil  on  the  tip  of  her  upturned  little  nose. 

'Oo!'  said  Teresa,  awed.  Hatted,  furred,  and  muffed, 
she  leaned  on  her  father's  shoulder. 

'Oo — dad!'  whispered  Alanna,  with  scarlet  cheeks. 

'So  now!'  said  her  mother,  with  a  little  nod  of  encour 
agement  and  warning.  'Put  it  right  in  your  muff,  lovey. 
Don 't  lose  it.  Dan  or  Jim  will  help  you  count  your  money, 
and  keep  things  straight.' 

'And  to  begin  with,  we'll  all  take  a  chance!'  said  the 


288  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

mayor,  bringing  his  fat  palm,  full  of  silver,  up  from  his 
pocket.  'How  old  are  you,  mommie?' 

'  I  'm  thirty-seven  —  all  but,  as  well  you  know,  Frank ! ' 
said  his  wife  promptly. 

*  Thirty-six  and  thirty-seven  for  you,  then!'  He  wrote 
her  name  opposite  both  numbers.  'And  here's  the  mayor 
on  the  same  page  —  forty-four!  And  twelve  for  Tessie,  and 
eight  for  this  highbinder  on  my  knee,  here !  And  now  we  '11 
have  one  for  little  Gertie!' 

Gertrude  Costello  was  not  yet  three  months  old,  her 
mother  said. 

'Well,  she  can  have  number  one,  any  way!'  said  the 
mayor.  'You  make  a  rejooced  rate  for  one  family,  I  under 
stand,  Miss  Costello?' 

'I  don't!'  chuckled  Alanna,  locking  her  thin  little  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  digging  her  chin  into  his  eye. 

So  he  gave  her  full  price,  and  she  went  off  with  her 
mother  in  a  state  of  great  content,  between  rows  and 
rows  of  coffins,  and  cases  of  plumes,  and  handles  and 
rosettes,  and  designs  for  monuments. 

'Mrs.  Church  will  want  some  chances,  won't  she, 
mother?'  she  said  suddenly. 

'Let  Mrs.  Church  alone,  darlin','  advised  Mrs.  Costello. 
'She's  not  a  Catholic,  and  there's  plenty  to  take  chances 
without  her!' 

Alanna  reluctantly  assented;  but  she  need  not  have 
worried.  Mrs.  Church  voluntarily  took  many  chances, 
and  became  very  enthusiastic  about  the  desk. 

She  was  a  pretty,  clever  young  woman,  of  whom  all  the 
Costellos  were  very  fond.  She  lived  with  a  very  young 
husband,  and  a  very  new  baby,  in  a  tiny  cottage  near  the 
big  Irish  family,  and  pleased  Mrs.  Costello  by  asking  her 
advice  on  all  domestic  matters,  and  taking  it.  She  made 
the  Costello  children  welcome  at  all  hours  in  her  tiny,  shin- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  289 

ing  kitchen,  or  sunny  little  dining-room.  She  made  them 
candy  and  told  them  stories.  She  was  a  minister's  daughter, 
and  wise  in  many  delightful,  girlish,  friendly  ways. 

And  in  return  Mrs.  Costello  did  her  many  a  kindly  act, 
and  sent  her  almost  daily  presents  in  the  most  natural 
manner  imaginable. 

But  Mrs.  Church  made  Alanna  very  unhappy  about  the 
raffled  desk.  It  so  chanced  that  it  matched  exactly  the 
other  furniture  in  Mrs.  Church's  rather  bare  little  drawing- 
room,  and  this  made  her  eager  to  win  it.  Alanna,  at  eight, 
long  familiar  with  raffles  and  their  ways,  realized  what  a 
very  small  chance  Mrs.  Church  stood  of  getting  the  desk. 
It  distressed  her  very  much  to  notice  that  lady's  growing 
certainty  of  success. 

She  took  chance  after  chance.  And  with  every  chance  she 
warned  Alanna  of  the  dreadful  results  of  her  not  winning; 
and  Alanna,  with  a  worried  line  between  her  eyes,  pro 
tested  her  helplessness  afresh. 

'  She  will  do  it,  dad ! '  the  little  girl  confided  to  him  one 
evening,  when  she  and  her  book  and  her  pencil  were  on  his 
knee.  'And  it  worries  me  so.' 

'Oh,  I  hope  she  wins  it,'  said  Teresa  ardently.  'She  's 
not  a  Catholic,  but  we're  praying  for  her.  And  you 
know  people  who  are  n't  Catholics,  dad,  are  apt  to  think 
that  our  fairs  are  pretty  —  pretty  money-making,  you 
know!' 

'And  if  only  she  could  point  to  that  desk,'  said  Alanna, 
'and  say  that  she  won  it  at  a  Catholic  fair.' 

'But  she  won't,'  said  Teresa,  suddenly  cold. 

'I'm  praying  she  will/  said  Alanna  suddenly. 

'Oh,  I  don't  think  you  ought,  do  you,  dad?'  said  Teresa 
gravely.  '  Do  you  think  she  ought,  mommie?  That 's  just 
like  her  pouring  her  holy  water  over  the  kitten.  You  ought 
n't  to  do  those  things.' 

20 


£90  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

'I  ought  to,'  said  Alanna,  in  a  whisper  that  reached  only 
her  father's  ear. 

'You  suit  me,  whatever  you  do,'  said  Mayor  Costello, 
'arid  Mrs.  Church  can  take  her  chances  with  the  rest  of  us.' 

Mrs.  Church  seemed  to  be  quite  willing  to  do  so.  When 
at  last  the  great  day  of  the  fair  came,  she  was  one  of  the 
first  to  reach  the  hall,  in  the  morning,  to  ask  Mrs.  Costello 
how  she  might  be  of  use. 

'Now  wait  a  minute,  then!'  said  Mrs.  Costello  cordially. 
She  straightened  up  as  she  spoke,  from  an  inspection  of  a 
box  of  fancy-work.  'We  could  only  get  into  the  hall  this 
hour  gone,  my  dear,  and  't  was  a  sight,  after  the  Native 
Sons'  Banquet  last  night.  It  '11  be  a  miracle  if  we  get  things 
in  order  for  to-night.  Father  Crowley  said  he  'd  have  three 
carpenters  here  this  morning  at  nine,  without  fail;  but  not 
one's  come  yet.  That  's  the  way!' 

'Oh,  we'll  fix  things,'  said  Mrs.  Church,  shaking  out  a 
dainty  little  apron. 

Alanna  came  briskly  up,  and  beamed  at  her.  The  little 
girl  was  driving  about  on  all  sorts  of  errands  for  her  mother, 
and  had  come  in  to  report. 

'Mother,  I  went  home,'  she  said,  in  a  breathless  rush, 
'and  told  Alma  four  extra  were  coming  to  lunch,  and  here 
are  your  big  scissors,  and  I  told  the  boys  you  wanted  them  to 
go  out  to  Uncle  Dan's  for  greens,  they  took  the  buckboard, 
and  I  went  to  Keyser's  for  the  cheesecloth,  and  he  had  only 
eighteen  yards  of  pink,  but  he  thinks  Kelley's  have  more, 
and  there  are  the  tacks,  and  they  don't  keep  spool-wire, 
and  the  electrician  will  be  here  in  ten  minutes.' 

'Alanna,  you're  the  pride  of  me  life,'  said  her  mother, 
kissing  her.  'That's  all  now,  dearie.  Sit  down  and  rest/ 

'  Oh,  but  I  'd  rather  go  round  and  see  things,'  said  Alanna, 
and  off  she  went. 

The  immense  hall  was  filled  with  the  noise  of  voices, 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  291 

hammers,  and  laughter.  Groups  of  distracted  women  were 
forming  and  dissolving  everywhere  around  chaotic  masses 
of  boards  and  bunting.  Whenever  a  carpenter  started  for 
the  door,  or  entered  it,  he  was  waylaid,  bribed,  and  bullied 
by  the  frantic  superintendents  of  the  various  booths. 
Messengers  came  and  went,  staggering  under  masses  of 
evergreen,  carrying  screens,  rope,  suit-cases,  baskets,  boxes, 
Japanese  lanterns,  freezers,  rugs,  ladders,  and  tables. 

Alanna  found  the  stage  fascinating.  Lunch  and  dinner 
were  to  be  served  there,  for  the  five  days  of  the  fair,  and 
it  had  been  set  with  many  chairs  and  tables,  fenced  with 
ferns  and  bamboo.  Alanna  was  charmed  to  arrange  knives 
and  forks,  to  unpack  oily  hams  and  sticky  cakes,  and  great 
bowls  of  salad,  and  to  store  them  neatly  away  in  a  green 
room. 

The  grand  piano  had  been  moved  down  to  the  floor. 
Now  and  then  an  audacious  boy  or  two  banged  on  it  for 
the  few  moments  that  it  took  his  mother's  voice  or  hands 
to  reach  him.  Little  girls  gently  played  'The  Carnival  of 
Venice'  or  *  Echoes  of  the  Ball,'  with  their  scared  eyes 
alert  for  reproof.  And  once  two  of  the  *  big  '  Sodality  girls 
came  up,  assured  and  laughing  and  dusty,  and  boldly  per 
formed  one  of  their  convent  duets.  Some  of  the  tired 
women  in  the  booths  straightened  up  and  clapped,  and 
called,  'Encore!' 

Teresa  was  not  one  of  these  girls.  Her  instrument  was 
the  violin;  moreover,  she  was  busy  and  absorbed  at  the 
Children  of  Mary's  booth,  which  by  four  o  'clock  began  to 
blossom  all  over  its  white-draped  pillars  and  tables  with 
ribbons  and  embroidery  and  tissue  paper,  and  cushions 
and  aprons  and  collars,  and  all  sorts  of  perfumed  pretti- 
ness. 

The  two  priests  were  constantly  in  evidence,  their  cas 
socks  and  hands  showing  unaccustomed  dust. 


292  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

And  over  all  the  confusion,  Mrs.  Costello  shone  supreme. 
Her  brisk,  big  figure,  with  skirts  turned  back,  and  a  blue 
apron  still  further  protecting  them,  was  everywhere  at 
once;  laughter  and  encouragement  marked  her  path. 
She  wore  a  paper  of  pins  on  the  breast  of  her  silk  dress,  she 
had  a  tack-hammer  thrust  in  her  belt.  In  her  apron- 
pockets  were  string,  and  wire,  and  tacks.  A  big  pair  of 
scissors  hung  at  her  side,  and  a  pencil  was  thrust  through 
her  smooth  black  hair.  She  advised  and  consulted  and 
directed;  even  with  the  priests  it  was  to  be  observed  that 
her  mild,  'Well,  Father,  it  seems  to  me/ always  won  the 
day.  She  led  the  electricians  a  life  of  it;  she  became  the 
terror  of  the  carpenters'  lives. 

Where  was  the  young  lady  that  played  the  violin  going 
to  stay?  Send  her  up  to  Mrs.  Costello's.  —  Heavens! 
We  were  short  a  tablecloth!  Oh,  but  Mrs.  Costello  had 
just  sent  Dan  home  for  one.  —  How  on  earth  could  the 
Male  Quartette  from  Tower  Town  find  its  way  to  the  hall? 
Mrs.  Costello  had  promised  to  tell  Mr.  C.  to  send  a  car 
riage  for  them. 

She  came  up  to  the  Children  of  Mary's  booth  about 
five  o'clock. 

'Well,  if  you  girls  ain't  the  wonders!'  she  said  to  the 
tired  little  Sodalists,  in  a  tone  of  unbounded  admiration 
and  surprise.  'You  make  me  ashamed  of  me  own  booth. 
This  is  beautiful.' 

'Oh,  do  you  think  so,  mother?'  said  Teresa  wistfully, 
clinging  to  her  mother's  arm. 

'I  think  it's  grand!'  said  Mrs.  Costello,  with  conviction. 
There  was  a  delighted  laugh.  'I'm  going  to  bring  all  the 
ladies  up  to  see  it.' 

'Oh,  I'm  so  glad!'  said  all  the  girls  together,  reviving 
visibly. 

'An'  the  pretty  things  you  got!'  went  on  the  cheering 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  293 

matron.  'You'll  clear  eight  hundred  if  you'll  clear  a  cent. 
And  now  put  me  down  for  a  chance  or  two;  don't  be 
scared,  Mary  Riordan;  four  or  five !  I  'm  goin'  to  bring  Mr. 
Costello  over  here  to-night,  and  don't  you  let  him  off  too 
easy.' 

Everyone  laughed  joyously. 

'Did  you  hear  of  Alanna's  luck?'  said  Mrs.  Costello. 
'When  the  Bishop  got  here,  he  took  her  all  around  the  hall 
with  him,  and  between  this  one  and  that,  every  last  one  of 
her  chances  is  gone.  She  could  n't  keep  her  feet  on  the 
floor  for  joy.  The  lucky  girl !  They  're  waitin'  for  you,  Tess, 
darlin',  with  the  buckboard.  Go  home  and  lay  down  a 
while  before  dinner.' 

'Aren't  you  lucky! '  said  Teresa,  as  she  climbed  a  few 
minutes  later  into  the  back  seat  with  Jim,  and  Dan  pulled 
out  the  whip. 

Alanna,  swinging  her  legs,  gave  a  joyful  assent.  She  was 
too  happy  to  talk,  but  the  other  three  had  much  to  say. 

'Mother  thinks  we'll  make  eight  hundred  dollars,'  said 
Teresa. 

'Gee!'  said  the  twins  together;  and  Dan  added,  'If  only 
Mrs.  Church  wins  that  desk,  now!' 

'Who's  going  to  do  the  drawing  of  numbers?'  Jimmy 
wondered. 

'Bishop,'  said  Dan;  'and  he'll  call  down  from  the  plat 
form,  "Number  twenty-six  wins  the  desk."  And  then 
Alanna '11  look  in  her  book,  and  pipe  up  and  say,  "Daniel 
Ignatius  Costello,  the  handsomest  fellow  in  the  parish, 
wins  the  desk."' 

'Twenty-six  is  Harry  Plummer,'  said  Alanna  seriously, 
looking  up  from  her  chance-book;  at  which  they  all  laughed. 

'But  take  care  of  that  book,'  warned  Teresa,  as  she 
climbed  down. 

'Oh,  I  will!'  responded  Alanna  fervently. 


294  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

And  through  the  next  four  happy  days  she  did,  and  took 
the  precaution  of  tying  it  by  a  stout  cord  to  her  arm. 

Then  on  Saturday,  the  last  afternoon,  quite  late,  when 
her  mother  had  suggested  that  she  go  home  with  Leo  and 
Jack  and  Frank  and  Gertrude  and  the  nurses,  Alanna  felt 
the  cord  hanging  loose  against  her  hand,  and  looking  down, 
saw  that  the  book  was  gone. 

She  was  holding  out  her  arms  for  her  coat  when  this 
took  place,  and  she  went  cold  all  over.  But  she  did  not 
move,  and  Minnie  buttoned  her  in  snugly,  and  tied  the 
ribbons  of  her  hat  with  cold,  hard  knuckles,  without  sus 
pecting  anything. 

Then  Alanna  disappeared,  and  Mrs.  Costello  sent  the 
maids  and  babies  on  without  her.  It  was  getting  dark  and 
cold  for  the  small  Costellos. 

But  the  hour  was  darker  and  colder  for  Alanna.  She 
searched  and  she  hoped  and  she  prayed  in  vain.  She  stood 
up,  after  a  long  hands-and-knees  expedition  under  the 
tables  where  she  had  been  earlier,  and  pressed  her  right 
hand  over  her  eyes,  and  said  aloud  in  her  misery,  'Oh,  I 
can't  have  lost  it !  I  can't  have.  Oh,  don't  let  me  have  lost 
it!' 

She  went  here  and  there  as  if  propelled  by  some  mechani 
cal  force,  a  wretched,  restless  little  figure.  And  when  the 
dreadful  moment  came  when  she  must  give  up  searching, 
she  crept  in  beside  her  mother  in  the  carriage,  and  longed 
only  for  some  honorable  death. 

When  they  all  went  back  at  eight  o'clock,  she  recom 
menced  her  search  feverishly,  with  that  cruel  alternation 
of  hope  and  despair  and  weariness  that  everyone  knows. 
The  crowds,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  laughter,  and  the 
noise,  and  the  pervading  odor  of  popcorn  were  not  real, 
when  a  shabby  brown  little  book  was  her  whole  world,  and 
she  could  not  find  it. 


, 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  295 

'The  drawing  will  begin,'  said  Alanna,  'and  the  Bishop 
will  call  out  the  number!  And  what '11  I  say?  Everyone 
will  look  at  me;  and  how  can  I  say  I  Ve  lost  it!  Oh,  what  a 
baby  they  '11  call  me ! ' 

'Father '11  pay  the  money  back/  she  said,  in  sudden 
relief.  But  the  impossibility  of  that  swiftly  occurred  to 
her,  and  she  began  hunting  again  with  fresh  terror. 

'But,  he  can't!  How  can  he?  A  hundred  names;  and  I 
don't  know  them,  or  half  of  them/ 

Then  she  felt  the  tears  coming,  and  she  crept  in  under 
some  benches,  and  cried. 

She  lay  there  a  long  time,  listening  to  the  curious  hum 
and  buzz  above  her.  And  at  last  it  occurred  to  her  to  go  to 
the  Bishop,  and  tell  this  old,  kind  friend  the  truth. 

But  she  was  too  late.  As  she  got  to  her  feet,  she  heard 
her  own  name  called  from  the  platform,  in  the  Bishop's 
voice. 

'Where's  Alanna  Costello?  Ask  her  who  has  number 
eighty-three  on  the  desk.  Eighty-three  wins  the  desk! 
Find  little  Alanna  Costello!' 

Alanna  had  no  time  for  thought.  Only  one  course  of 
action  occurred  to  her.  She  cleared  her  throat. 

'Mrs.  Will  Church  has  that  number,  Bishop,'  she  said. 

The  crowd  about  her  gave  way,  and  the  Bishop  saw  her, 
rosy,  embarrassed,  and  breathless. 

'Ah,  there  you  are!'  said  the  Bishop.   'WHO  has  it?' 

'Mrs.  Church,  your  Grace,'  said  Alanna,  calmly  this 
time. 

'Well,  did  you  ever!9  said  Mrs.  Costello  to  the  Bishop. 

She  had  gone  up  to  claim  a  mirror  she  had  won  —  a 
mirror  with  a  gold  frame,  and  lilacs  and  roses  painted 
lavishly  on  its  surface. 

'Gee,  I  bet  Alanna  was  pleased  about  the  desk!'  said 
Dan  in  the  carriage. 


296  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

'Mrs.  Church  nearly  cried,'  Teresa  said,  'But  where 'd 
Alanna  go  to?  I  could  n't  find  her  until  just  a  few  minutes 
ago,  and  then  she  was  so  queer!' 

'It's  my  opinion  she  was  dead  tired,'  said  her  mother. 
'Look  how  sound  she's  asleep!  Carry  her  up,  Frank. 
I'll  keep  her  in  bed  in  the  morning.' 

They  kept  Alanna  in  bed  for  many  mornings,  for  her 
secret  weighed  on  her  soul,  and  she  failed  suddenly  in 
color,  strength,  and  appetite.  She  grew  weak  and  nervous, 
and  one  afternoon,  when  the  Bishop  came  to  see  her, 
worked  herself  into  such  a  frenzy  that  Mrs.  Costello  won- 
deringly  consented  to  her  entreaty  that  he  should  not  come 
up. 

She  would  not  see  Mrs.  Church,  or  go  to  see  the  desk  in 
its  new  house,  or  speak  of  the  fair  in  any  way.  But  she 
did  ask  her  mother  who  swept  out  the  hall  after  the  fair. 

'I  did  a  good  deal  meself,'  said  Mrs.  Costello,  dashing 
one  hope  to  the  ground. 

Alanna  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  sick  with  disappoint 
ment. 

One  afternoon,  about  a  week  after  the  fair,  she  was 
brooding  over  the  fire.  The  other  children  were  at  the 
matinee,  Mrs.  Costello  was  out,  and  a  violent  storm  was 
whirling  about  the  nursery  windows. 

Presently,  Annie,  the  laundress,  put  her  frowsy  head  in 
at  the  door.  She  was  a  queer,  warm-hearted  Irish  girl; 
her  big  arms  were  still  steaming  from  the  tub,  and  her 
apron  was  wet. 

'Ahl  alone?'  said  Annie  with  a  broad  smile. 

'Yes;  come  in,  won't  you,  Annie?'  said  little  Alanna. 

'I  cahn't.  I'm  at  the  toobs,'  said  Annie,  coming  in 
nevertheless.  'I  was  doin'  all  the  tableclot's  and  napkins, 
an'  out  drops  your  little  buke ! ' 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA  297 

'My  —  what  did  you  say?'  said  Alanna,  very  white. 
-  '  Your  little  buke,'  said  Annie. 

She  laid  the  chance-book  on  the  table,  and  proceeded 
to  mend  the  fire. 

Alanna  sank  back  in  her  chair.  She  twisted  her  fingers 
together,  and  tried  to  think  of  an  appropriate  prayer. 

'Thank  you,  Annie/  she  said  weakly,  when  the  laundress 
went  out.  Then  she  sprang  for  the  book.  It  slipped  twice 
from  her  cold  little  fingers  before  she  could  open  it. 

'Eighty-three'/  she  said  hoarsely.  'Sixty  —  seventy  — 
eighty-three ! ' 

She  looked  and  looked  and  looked.  She  shut  the  book 
and  opened  it  again,  and  looked.  She  laid  it  on  the  table, 
and  walked  away  from  it,  and  then  came  back  suddenly, 
and  looked.  She  laughed  over  it,  and  cried  over  it,  and 
thought  how  natural  it  was,  and  how  wonderful  it  was,  all 
in  the  space  of  ten  blissful  minutes. 

And  then,  with  returning  appetite  and  color  and  peace 
of  mind,  her  eyes  filled  with  pity  for  the  wretched  little 
girl  who  had  watched  this  same  sparkling,  delightful  fire 
so  drearily  a  few  minutes  ago. 

Her  small  soul  was  steeped  in  gratitude.  She  crooked 
her  arm  and  put  her  face  down  on  it,  and  sank  to  her  knees. 


SPENDTHRIFTS 

BY  LAURA  SPENCER  PORTOR 
I 

THE  story  I  am  about  to  tell  I  have  never  told  before. 
The  events  in  it  took  place  when  I  was  a  child  of  fifteen, 
an  oldish  child  of  fifteen.  I  had  a  taste  for  books  and 
dreams,  and  a  kind  of  adoring  love  of  older  people;  a  pre 
dilection,  too,  for  romance  and  wonderment.  There  were 
many  things  I  meant  to  do  some  day. 

Among  my  lesser  resolves  was  one  that  I  had  held  for  a 
good  many  years:  I  mean  the  resolve  some  day  to  be  a 
passenger  in  the  absurd  old-fashioned  'bus  that  had  made 
its  daily  journey,  ever  since  I  could  remember,  from  my 
home  town  to  a  small  town  quite  off  the  railroad,  and  some 
twelve  miles  away,  the  county-seat  of  that  county  in  which 
my  home  was  situated. 

The  'bus  was  an  extraordinary-looking  vehicle.  It  had 
the  air  of  a  huge  beetle.  It  creaked  and  rattled  when  it 
was  in  action.  It  had  enormous  dipping  springs.  It  lunged 
and  rolled  a  bit  from  side  to  side  as  it  went.  Its  top  bulged 
and  had  ribs  across  it  and  a  low  iron  railing  around  it,  con 
venient  for  the  lashing  of  ropes  to  hold  the  packages  of  all 
kinds  and  sizes  with  which  it  usually  went  laden.  There 
was  a  door  at  the  back  and  there  were  two  steps  by  which 
to  enter.  It  had  the  air  of  being  a  distinguished  character, 
even  among  the  antiquated  and  entirely  individual  types 
of  vehicle  still  common  then  in  the  little  old-fashioned  town. 
This  air  was,  no  doubt,  due  chiefly  to  the  large  oval  pic 
tures  painted,  not  without  some  skill,  on  its  sides.  One  of 
these  depicted  the  rescue  of  Daniel  Boone  by  Kenton,  who 


SPENDTHRIFTS  299 

with  the  butt  of  a  large  musket  was  perpetually  about  to 
brain  a  murderous  Indian;  the  other  dealt  with  Smith's  un 
changing  obligation  to  Pocahontas. 

I  hardly  think  Keats  had  more  lasting  enjoyment  of  his 
Grecian  urn  with  'brede  of  marble  men  and  maidens  over 
wrought'  than  I  of  those  pictures,  where,  not  less  than  in 
the  more  classic  example,  I  saw  perpetually  preserved  what 
I  took  to  be  the  most  thrilling  and  desirable  of  moments, 
death  forever  arrested  by  unending  loyalty  and  undying 
affection. 

But,  interesting  as  all  this  was,  it  was  by  no  means  the 
heart  of  that  strange  fascination  with  which,  for  so  many 
years,  I  contemplated  the  old  beetling  vehicle.  Its  fascina 
tion  lay  for  me  in  its  daily  journey  to  parts  beyond  the 
bounds  of  my  narrow  horizon.  It  plied  faithfully  every 
week-day  of  the  year,  an  envoy  extraordinary,  ambassador 
plenipotentiary,  between  another  world  and  mine.  Some 
day  I  should  see  that  world  and  know  it. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  I  had  in  mind 
only  the  town  to  which  the  'bus  journeyed,  the  mere  incon 
siderable  county  seat.  Children's  imaginations,  especially 
when  the  child  is  just  emerging  into  all  the  glorious  possi 
bilities  of  womanhood,  deal,  not  in  towns,  but  in  worlds. 
The  world  outside  my  own  narrow  bounds  of  life — that 
was  what  I  meant  to  see  and  experience. 

I  can  think  of  only  one  thing,  besides  the  old  'bus,  which 
roused  my  fancy  to  an  equal  degree,  namely,  the  herds  of 
dumb  cattle  which  were  driven  past  my  home  always  once, 
and  sometimes  twice  a  week,  to  the  stockyards  which  lay 
somewhere  on  the  outskirts  of  my  home  town.  If  I  close 
my  eyes,  I  can  still  hear  on  hot  afternoons  the  dark  herds 
trampling  past,  a  mass  of  broad  backs  and  spreading  horns 
and  wide  foreheads,  —  and  dull  or  occasionally  frightened 
eyes,  —  and  the  hurrying  hoofs,  scuffling  the  dust. 


300  SPENDTHRIFTS 

I  had  never  seen  the  stockyards.  I  was  never  informed 
very  particularly  about  them,  and  by  some  instinct,  I  sup 
pose,  I  never  inquired  too  carefully.  But  I  knew  this  for 
another  world  also,  and  dread  as  it  was,  it  fascinated  me. 
I  believe  the  hurrying  herds  stood  to  me  for  a  kind  of  world 
of  fearful  reality  that  I  meant  some  day  to  look  into,  and 
the  old  picture-painted  'bus  for  a  world  of  romance,  yon 
der,  yonder  over  the  dip  of  the  horizon,  which  not  less, 
some  day,  I  was  determined  to  know. 

Just  how  I  came  to  take  my  resolve,  and  the  events  which 
precipitated  it  —  all  this  has  no  bearing  on  the  story.  The 
story  begins  just  where  I  stood  that  hot  day  in  June  wait 
ing  for  the  'bus  by  the  dusty  mullens  beside  the  pike.  I 
had  walked  a  good  mile  outside  the  town  so  that  none  of 
the  townspeople  would  see  the  beginning  of  my  adventure. 

The  'bus  was  late,  I  think,  even  allowing  for  my  anxiety. 
It  came  in  sight  at  last,  at  a  slow  beetling  pace.  I  held  up 
a  slim  finger.  But  not  until  he  was  alongside  did  the  driver 
begin  to  draw  in  the  long  reins.  I  ran  after  the  'bus  a  few 
paces,  opened  the  door,  climbed  the  high  steps  with  a  beat 
ing  heart,  and  got  in. 

The  driver  peeked  through  the  little  peek-hole  in  the  roof 
to  make  sure  I  was  safe;  then  he  called  to  his  horses,  and 
the  vehicle  lunged  ahead. 

The  only  other  passengers  were  an  old  man,  unknown  to 
me,  who  carried  a  basket  of  eggs,  and  an  old  woman  who 
lived  somewhere  outside  the  town  and  whom  I  recognized 
as  one  we  called  the  *  horse-radish  woman.'  She  stood  al 
ways  on  a  Saturday  at  one  corner  of  our  town  market, 
grinding  and  selling  horse-radish  roots,  blinking  with  red 
eyes,  and  always  wiping  the  tears  from  them  before  she 
could  make  you  your  change.  I  recognized  her  of  course  at 
once,  but  whether  she  knew  me,  I  do  not  know.  If  she  did, 
she  gave  not  the  least  evidence  of  it,  but  looked  out  ab- 


SPENDTHRIFTS  301 

sently  with  squinted  red-lidded  eyes  at  the  country  as  we 
jogged  along. 

The  lovely  rolling  Kentucky  land  began  to  spread  out  on 
all  sides.  Long  white  curves  of  the  pike  flowed  slowly  be 
hind  us  and  were  seen  in  glimpses  through  the  open  front 
windows  ahead  of  us.  Dust  rose  and  settled  over  us. 

A  little  while  before  we  got  to  Latonia,  the  old  horse 
radish  woman,  with  a  tin  cup  she  carried,  knocked  on  the 
ceiling  of  the  'bus  near  the  driver's  peep-hole,  to  warn  him 
that  she  wished  to  get  out.  When  we  arrived  at  Latonia 
and  the  horses  were  having  water  at  the  big  trough,  the 
old  man  with  the  basket  of  eggs  also  left. 

But  I  was  going  all  the  way  to  the  county  seat  and  I  con 
sidered  these  passengers  much  below  my  own  level  as  trav 
elers.  They  were  merely  making  a  convenience  of  the  'bus, 
you  see,  which  just  happened  to  go  past  their  homes ;  where 
as  I  was  off  for  adventure,  my  home  quite  in  the  other  di 
rection,  and  the  world  spread  wide  before  me. 

It  was  with  a  tourist's  pleasure,  then,  that  I  looked  at 
that  little  grouping  of  houses  and  the  elm-  and  poplar- 
shaded  pike,  which  in  those  days  was  called,  and  I  believe 
is  still  called,  Latonia;  and  at  the  old  Latonia  Springs 
Hotel.  It  was  a  typical  relic  of  Southern  before- the- war 
hotel  architecture,  with  its  white  pillars,  its  long  verandas, 
its  wide  doorway,  its  large  lawn  sombred  by  very  old  shade 
trees. 

I  had  known  something  of  travel.  I  had  lived  in  France 
for  two  years,  at  school;  but  there  I  had  always  had  some 
one  to  go  about  with  me.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  I  was 
alone.  I  liked  the  flavor  of  the  adventure;  it  was  novel,  and 
very  stimulating.  This  journey,  however  poor  a  thing  it 
might  seem  to  others,  had  Audrey's  superlative  virtue:  it 
was  mine  own.  The  old  hotel,  then,  already  romantic 
enough,  took  on  an  additional  romance  in  my  eyes. 


302  SPENDTHRIFTS 

The  driver  came  around  now  from  sponging  his  horses' 
heads  and  noses  at  the  trough. 

'Going  all  the  way,  are  you?* 

I  nodded. 

*  Well,  you  can  get  out  and  stretch  your  legs  if  you  like, 
for  we'll  be  here  ten  minutes.' 

But  I  did  not  'like.'  In  the  'bus  I  felt  safe  enough;  but 
if  I  got  out  —  adventurous  spirit  though  I  was  —  I  knew 
with  unconquerable  shyness  that  everybody  would  be  star 
ing  at  me. 

I  contented  myself  with  watching  the  lazy  coming  and 
going  of  a  few  people;  a  dog  snapping  at  flies;  some  chickens 
taking  dust-baths  in  the  road. 

What  a  still,  lazy  place  it  was !  Some  one  asked  the  time. 
The  driver's  watch  had  stopped.  Nobody  knew;  it  ap 
peared  not  to  matter.  This  seemed  no  place  for  clocks.  A 
stout  lame  man,  having  the  look  of  a  Southern  war  veteran, 
stopped  on  his  cane  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  looked  around 
carefully  at  the  outlying  country  and  the  shadows,  then 
took  a  calculating  glance  at  the  heavens. 

'Well,  I  should  reckon,  colonel,'  he  said,  addressing  the 
stage-driver,  'it  mout  be  about  twenty-two  minutes  past 
two.  You  gen'lly  get  here  about  two,  but  you  was  a  bit 
late  to-day,  a  leetle  bit  late,  I  should  say  maybe  to  the 
amount  of  about  twelve  minutes.' 

He  leaned  on  his  cane  again  and  began  dotting  his  way 
slowly  and  heavily  through  the  dust  toward  the  hotel. 

I  could  not  have  told  whether  he  was  in  jest  or  earnest. 
But  as  I  look  back  on  it  now,  it  seems  to  me  curiously  fit 
ting  that  the  little  town  should  have  had  so  scant  depend 
ence  on  timepieces,  for  it  lay  away  from  all  the  world,  and 
there  was  so  little  to  occupy  the  attention,  that  the  houses, 
the  dusty  pike,  with  its  slowly  lengthening  and  slowly 
shortening  shadows,  the  fields  beyond,  with  their  great 


SPENDTHRIFTS  303 

sycamores  and  maples,  and  the  sky  so  little  interrupted 
from  edge  to  edge,  must  each,  indeed,  have  been  to  those 
who  had  so  long  observed  them,  a  sundial  to  make  clocks 
seem  mere  bustling  contrivances. 

A  big  fly  sailed  in  one  of  the  'bus  windows,  round  and 
round,  droning,  and  then  out;  it  went  with  every  effect 
of  careful  choice  and  deliberation,  to  settle  on  the  nose  of  the 
old  dog  that  lay,  alternately  napping  and  snapping,  four 
feet  in  the  sun. 

I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  keen  enjoyment  with  which 
I  noted  all  these  details.  I  take  pleasure  now  in  remember 
ing  that,  despite  the  fact  that  I  had  lived  in  Paris,  among 
its  thrilling  boulevards  and  monuments,  and  had  seen  some 
stagey  Swiss  villages  and  dramatic  little  French  towns,  this 
little  cluster  of  houses  known  as  Latonia,  on  a  dusty  pike 
in  Kentucky,  only  a  few  miles  from  my  own  home,  —  this 
village  which  never  a  tourist  would  have  gone  to  see,  — 
was  to  me  in  that  droning,  incredibly  quiet  afternoon  a 
very  piece  of  romance;  the  air  itself,  —  I  beg  you  to  have 
patience  with  me,  for  really,  I  tell  you  only  the  truth,  — 
the  very  air  itself  being  *  ambient'  for  me;  the  green  fields 
'amburbial';  the  white  clouds,  so  nearly  at  rest  in  the  blue 
sky,  'huge  symbols  of  a  high  romance';  the  silver  poplars 
and  elms  not  less  than  'immemorial';  and  the  old  hotel  a 
thing  made  of  dreams,  haunted  with  green  and  shaded 
memories  of  before-the-war  days,  across  whose  veranda 
might  have  stepped  at  any  moment,  before  my  unaston- 
ished  eyes,  the  actors  in  some  noble  human  drama. 

I  remember,  too,  that  my  eye  found  some  dusty  mari 
golds,  their  blooms  leaning  through  a  low  paling  fence  of 
one  of  the  houses.  My  eye  must  have  passed  over  many  a 
marigold  before  that;  I  probably  never  saw  one  until  then. 
I  remember  noting  their  singularity  and  softness  of  color, 
so  individual  and  particular  compared  with  the  more  cus- 


304  SPENDTHRIFTS 

ternary  reds  and  yellows  of  commoner  flowers,  so  far  more 
memorable  and  desirable  and  foreign;  a  part  they  seemed, 
too,  of  the  quietness  and  strangeness  and  romance  in  the 
midst  of  which  I  found  myself. 

The  'bus  driver  was  making  ready  to  leave. 

The  lame  war  veteran,  —  for  I  still  take  him  to  have 
been  such,  —  having  got  as  far  as  the  gate  of  the  Latonia 
Hotel,  was  met  by  a  long,  lazy-legged  darkey  coming  down 
the  walk,  carrying  two  traveling  satchels.  Noticeably  new- 
looking  they  were,  and  handsome,  for  that  part  of  the 
world.  He  had  one  under  his  arm,  the  other  dangling  from 
the  same  hand,  which  left  his  other  hand  free  to  manipu 
late  a  long  piece  of  ribbon-grass  which  he  was  chewing 
lazily.  The  veteran  held  the  gate  open,  the  weight  of  his 
body  leaning  against  it. 

'Going  away,  are  they?' 

'Yassuh.' 

There  emerged  from  the  hotel  at  this  moment  a  man  and 
a  woman. 

The  darkey  crossed  the  road  and  put  the  two  satchels  in 
the  'bus  — •  and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
door,  holding  it  wide  open,  waiting. 

ii 

I  watched  the  two  strangers  as  they  approached.  When 
they  reached  the  'bus  the  man  assisted  the  woman,  in  a 
somewhat  formal  yet  indifferent  way.  She  entered  and 
took  her  seat  nearly  diagonally  opposite  to  me.  The  man 
plunged  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  brought  out  a  coin,  and  put 
it  in  the  darkey's  hand,  and  stooping,  for  he  was  tall,  en 
tered  the  'bus  after  her.  It  swayed  a  little  perilously  with 
his  weight,  and  rocked  quite  a  bit  before  he  finally  com 
fortably  seated  himself  directly  across  from  me. 

The  driver  meanwhile  had  swung  himself  up  on  the  high 


SPENDTHRIFTS  305 

driver's  seat.  He  opened  the  peep-hole  and  looked  down, 
then  gathered  the  reins,  and  clucked  to  his  horses,  and  the 
'bus  drove  off. 

If  the  town  had  interested  me  before,  I  forgot  it  now  — 
forgot  it  quite  in  the  attention,  direct  and  indirect,  which 
I  gave  to  my  fellow  passengers. 

The  man  was  faultlessly  dressed.  Such  clothes  were  not 
customary  in  that  corner  of  the  world.  The  neat  derby,  the 
band  of  which  he  was  even  now  wiping  with  a  lavender- 
edged  silk  handkerchief,  was  a  thing  foreign  to  those  parts 
at  that  season,  cheap  straw  hats  being  rather  the  rule.  The 
tips  of  the  fingers  of  a  pair  of  new  tan  gloves  were  to  be 
seen  just  looking  out  from  the  left  breast-pocket  of  his 
well-buttoned  light  gray  suit.  I  could  see  that  he  wore  a 
white  vest,  and  his  shirt  had  a  little  hair-line  of  purple  in 
it.  His  hands  were  large  and  very  white  and  well  kept,  the 
fingers  close  fitted  together.  On  one  of  them  a  conspicuous 
Mexican  opal  smouldered  in  a  massive,  very  dark  gold 
setting. 

I  have  no  words,  even  to  this  day,  to  describe  the  woman 
who  sat  a  foot  or  two  from  him  and  to  whom  he  addressed 
his  remarks  in  an  indifferently  possessive  manner. 

She  was  slight;  her  hair  was  of  a  light  brown,  her  eyes  of 
a  distinct  orange  color.  Her  face  sloped  delicately  from  the 
forehead,  which  was  low  enough  to  be  beautiful,  and  high 
enough  to  suggest  nobility  of  thought,  down  to  the  lovely 
line  of  chin.  Her  throat  was  slender  and  very  white,  rising 
from  a  turned-down  Puritan  collar.  A  Puritan  cloak  of 
dust-colored  linen,  with  strappings  of  orange,  fell  away 
under  the  collar  in  soft  and  cool  lines.  Her  brown  veil  had 
at  its  edge  a  line  of  orange  color  also.  The  brown  was  a 
shade  lighter  than  her  hair;  the  orange  a  shade  darker  than 
her  eyes.  The  veil  carried  with  it  I  cannot  say  what  manner 
of  ethereal  graciousness,  and  fell  into  a  wave  or  floating  line 
21 


306  SPENDTHRIFTS 

of  loveliness  as  she  turned  her  head.  Once,  as  we  dipped 
into  a  shaded  hollow  and  across  a  running  stream,  a  little 
breeze  of  coolness  came  in  at  the  windows.  The  veil,  lifted 
by  it,  floated  and  clung  like  a  living  thing  to  her  throat  and 
lips,  until  her  delicate  hand  put  it  away  gently. 

I  watched  her,  very  fascinated.  She  was  a  creature  of 
another  world.  That  she  and  the  horse-radish  woman  could 
live  on  the  same  planet  spoke  volumes  for  the  infinite  scale 
of  life. 

At  first  these  two  new  passengers  spoke  hardly  at  all. 
Once  the  man  bent  his  massive  figure  to  get  a  better  look 
at  the  landscape  from  the  window  opposite  him,  and  called 
the  attention  of  his  companion  to  some  point  in  it. 

*  There!  As  I  recollect  it,  the  property  is  not  unlike 
that,  Louise.  It  rolls  that  way,  I  mean;  and  Felton's  line 
comes  into  it  just  as  that  snake  fence  comes  across  there. 
It  is  on  the  other  side  that  the  vein  of  coal  is  said  to 
begin.' 

Though  she  gave  a  courteous  hearing,  I  had  the  impres 
sion  that  she  was  not  really  interested. 

She  watched  the  country  with  a  kind  of  well-bred  inat 
tentive  glance.  For  myself  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  her. 
I  watched  her  with  that  hunger  for  beauty  which  is  native 
to  the  heart  of  a  child.  Above  all  I  watched  her  eyes.  The 
strange,  unusual  color  of  them  was  in  itself  a  kind  of  ro 
mance.  She  gave  one  the  impression  of  being  a  woman 
unique;  something  rare  and  choice,  not  to  be  found  again 
or  elsewhere. 

Once  she  turned  her  head  and  met  my  full  gaze.  I  was 
embarrassed,  but  I  need  not  have  been.  She  set  the  matter 
right  by  addressing  me  with  a  gentle  courtesy. 

'Do  you  live  out  here? ' 

I  shook  my  head.  I  meant  to  reply  more  fully  in  a  mo 
ment  when  I  had  recovered  myself;  but  the  man  spoke. 


SPENDTHRIFTS  307 

'Never  heard  of  Thomas  Felton,  I  suppose,  did  you? 
Used  to  live  once  in  Owen  County  not  far  from  here.' 

I  shook  my  head  again  and  formed  the  word  'No.' 

The  woman  gave  him  a  gentle  glance;  nothing  reproving, 
but  he  took  it  in  the  manner  of  reproof. 

'Well,  I  did  not  know  but  she  might  have,'  he  explained. 
Then  he  settled  back  a  little.  'Maybe  some  one  else  will 
get  in  later  who  does  know.  I  thought  them  confoundedly 
stupid  at  the  hotel.  Did  n't  seem  anxious  to  give  any  in 
formation  either.  Nobody  knows  anything  in  a  place  like 
that.' 

There  was  silence  again.  The  fields  at  one  side  of  the 
road  climbed  now,  here  and  there.  Low  pastures  rose  to 
be  foothills.  Around  one  of  these  hills  a  rocky  road  ap 
peared  sloping  down  to  the  pike.  Up  the  road,  at  a  little 
distance,  was  a  rustic  archway  like  an  entrance  to  a  private 
property.  Waiting  by  the  side  of  the  road,  stood  a  figure 
strange  to  me,  in  the  garb  of  some  monastic  order. 

The  woman  did  not  notice  him.  Her  glance  was  far  off  at 
the  horizon  at  the  other  side.  The  man  did.  He  regarded 
the  stranger  with  a  stolid  bold  curiosity.  Then  some  idea 
of  his  own  occurred  to  him,  suddenly.  As  the  'bus  stopped 
to  take  on  this  new  passenger,  the  heavy  man  rose,  to  take 
advantage  of  its  steadiness,  no  doubt,  and  stooping  so  as 
not  to  knock  his  derby  against  the  ceiling  of  the  vehicle, 
tapped  imperatively  on  the  lid  of  the  little  peep-hole,  and 
when  it  was  raised,  spoke  to  the  driver. 

'This  road  leading  up  at  the  side  here  does  n't  happen 
to  be  the  Chorley  road,  does  it,  that  leads  into  Felton's 
woods?  They  said  there  was  a  road  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  that 
led  into  some  timber  lands  belonging  to  a  man  named 
Felton.' 

The  driver  did  not  understand.  The  question  had  to  be 
repeated,  While  the  man  repeated  it,  the  Franciscan  — 


308  SPENDTHRIFTS 

though  I  am  not  entirely  sure  he  was  of  that  order  —  open 
ed  the  door  of  the  'bus.  The  woman  turned  her  head  now. 
I  saw  her  orange-colored  eyes  grow  wide  and  large  as  they 
noted  him.  With  habitually  bent  head  and  regarding  none 
of  us,  he  entered.  As  he  seated  himself  in  the  corner,  he 
looked  up,  however,  and  his  eyes  met  hers.  I  saw  him  start 
really  violently.  His  color,  which  was  a  dark  olive,  with  a 
too  bright  crimson  under  it  at  the  cheek-bones,  became 
suddenly  ashy. 

There  was  just  that  one  look  between  them.  The  next 
instant  she  had  turned  to  the  other,  returning  from  his 
questions  with  the  driver.  He  had  not  seen  the  look  that 
I  had  noted. 

The  Franciscan  now  drew  his  eyes  away  from  the  wom 
an's  face,  fumbled  in  the  skirt  of  his  habit,  and  brought 
out  a  prayer-book  which  he  opened  with  fingers  that  shook. 

The  heavy  man  seated  himself,  exactly  opposite  the 
woman,  and  beside  me  and  within  touch  of  the  Franciscan. 
He  addressed  the  woman. 

*  I  just  thought  that  that  might  be  Chorley's  road.  They 
said  it  ran  up  a  slope.  It  was  n't,  though.  I  thought  I'd 
like  to  get  a  sight  of  the  timber.  We  may  try  to  make  him 
throw  that  in,  in  payment.' 

He  glanced  around  at  the  Franciscan,  whose  eyes  were 
now  entirely  on  his  book;  took  him  in,  as  it  were;  then  let 
his  glance  glide  off  out  one  of  the  windows.  After  a  suffi 
cient  time,  a  kind  of  courteous  pause,  he  leaned  forward  a 
little,  raised  his  derby  the  least  bit,  and  said,  '  Excuse  me, 
but  I  suppose  you  live  here?' 

The  Franciscan  looked  up,  but  answered  nothing.  The 
color  came  surging  back  suddenly  into  his  face,  which  was 
haggard.  There  was  a  noncommittal  look  in  his  eyes,  as 
though  his  lips  were  to  say,  'I  beg  your  pardon.' 

'I  supposed  you  lived  here/  the  other  said,  'and  I 


SPENDTHRIFTS  309 

thought  you  might  just  happen  to  know  a  man  named 
Felton.  He  came  originally  from  Owen  County.  We  are 
on  here  from  New  York.  We  are  strangers  and  we  know 
nothing  of  this  country.  You  don't  happen  to  know'  — 

The  Franciscan  gave  a  gentle  smile,  raised  one  slim  hand, 
which  yet  trembled  visibly  — •  a  fine  deprecating  gesture. 

'Pardon,  m'sieu!' 

'Oh,  I  see.'  The  other  touched  his  hat  with  a  little  mo 
tion  of  withdrawal  and  clumsy  apology.  '  I  see.  I  did  n't 
know  you  were  French.  I  don't  speak  French  myself.  Wish 
I  did!  Excuse  me.  Excuse  me.' 

Here  was  an  occasion!  The  adventure  was  turning 
squarely  toward  me.  I  knew  French;  I  was  proud  of  it  and 
eager  to  offer  my  services.  I  could  perfectly  well  act  as 
translator,  interpreter  for  these  two.  Moreover,  it  would 
give  me  that  greatly  to  be  desired  thing,  the  attention  of 
this  beautiful  woman.  Yet  I  did  not  dare  all  this  at  once. 
I  would  wait  a  moment.  How  should  I  break  into  the  con 
versation?  A  child  of  fifteen,  however  oldish,  is  shy.  Would 
it  be  proper  for  me  to  say,  'Excuse  me,  but  — ? ' 

As  I  was  thinking  of  it  with  a  kind  of  tumult  of  pride 
and  shyness,  the  man  turned  to  the  woman. 

'Look  here,  Louise;  that's  a  fact!  You  speak  French! 
Ask  him  if  he  knows  Thomas  Felton's  property.  Tell  him 
it's  Felton  who  lived  over  in  Owen  County  and  used  to  be 
a  wealthy  man.' 

She  turned  her  clear  eyes  to  the  Franciscan  and  spoke 
in  a  pure  Parisian  French. 

'This  man,  my  husband,  wishes  me  to  ask  if  you  know 
a  Thomas  Felton  who  has  property  out  here  in  this  direc 
tion.'  In  the  same  tone  exactly,  she  added,  'Do  not  let  him 
suspect  that  you  know  me.' 

'  Let  him  think '  —  the  reply  came  in  pure  French  also  — 


310  SPENDTHRIFTS 

'that  I  speak  no  English.  In  this  way  you  and  I  can  con 
verse  together.' 

Her  wonderful  orange-colored  eyes  quivered  the  least 
bit  as  she  drew  them  away  from  the  Franciscan  and  met 
the  waiting  eyes  of  her  husband. 

She  spoke  with  perfect  composure,  however. 

'He  says  he  believes  there  was  such  a  man  hereabout 
some  years  ago.' 

Her  husband  turned  quickly  as  if  he  himself  would  fur 
ther  address  the  Franciscan;  then,  recollecting  that  he 
knew  no  French,  he  appealed  to  her  again. 

'Now  Louise,  look  here.  Try  to  get  it  straight.  As  I  told 
you,  there  are  two  men  of  that  name,  a  nephew  and  an 
uncle.  It 's  the  uncle  I  want  to  get  hold  of.  He  is  the  man 
who  owns  the  property  we  want.  Ask  this  man  how  old 
this  Felton  is,  this  man  he  knows;  I  can  tell  by  that/ 

She  turned  again  to  the  Franciscan,  and  spoke  again  in 
French.  Indeed  they  spoke  nothing  else  but  that  sweet  and 
flowing  language,  a  knowledge  of  which  put  me,  without 
my  will,  in  league  with  them. 

'How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?'  she  questioned. 

'I  joined  the  order  after  I  left  you/  he  said.  'That  is, 
they  simply  allow  me  to  live  with  them,  chiefly  on  account 
of  my  name,  I  think;  that,  and,  I  think,  as  an  act  of  mercy. 
As  a  kind  of  lay  brother  —  it  is  simple.  But,  this  man  — 
he  is  your  husband?' 

'Yes,  I  have  been  married  to  him  eight  months/ 

'In  God's  name!'  he  said,  but  in  a  perfectly  even  con 
versational  tone.  'And  you  have  suffered.  Of  course  you 
have  suffered/ 

They  used  throughout  their  conversation,  as  I  have  not 
indicated  here,  because  it  sounds  forced  in  English,  the 
familiar  and  gentle  tutoiement,  the  thee-and-thouing  of  the 
French. 


SPENDTHRIFTS  311 

The  husband,  understanding  nothing  of  what  they  said, 
was  watching  the  two  with  interest;  his  small  eyes  were 
eager  in  his  heavy  face;  he  was  waiting  for  his  answer. 

'Do  not  let  us  talk  too  long,'  the  Franciscan  said,  and 
turned  with  a  faintly  courteous  smile,  as  though  to  include 
the  heavy  man  in  the  conversation.  'Ask  me  some  more 
questions,'  he  said  to  the  woman;  'get  him  to  ask  some 
more  questions,  I  mean.  In  that  way  we  shall  have  a  little 
time  to  talk  together.' 

She  addressed  her  husband. 

'He  is  not  quite  sure.  He  thinks,  however,  the  man  he 
has  in  mind  has  a  gray  beard.' 

Her  husband  drew  his  large  flat  fingers  down  his  heavy 
chin  twice,  as  if  stroking  an  imaginary  beard  of  his  own, 
thoughtfully;  his  eyes  narrowed  even  more,  very  specula- 
tively. 

'I  see,  I  see!  Well  now,  like  as  not  it's  the  same  one.' 
Then  he  put  his  hands  on  his  knees  and  leaned  forward  as 
though  really  addressing  himself  to  the  business.  'Look 
here,  Louise,  you  ask  him  if  this  man  he  knows  ever  had 
anything  to  do  with  a  railway  —  a  railway  out  West  and 
coal  lands  out  there.' 

'You  must  give  me  time.  Let  me  see!  How  does  one  say 
all  that?  My  French  is  not  so  fluent  as  it  once  was.  I  shall 
have  to  get  at  it  in  a  roundabout  way.  Have  patience.' 

'Take  your  time,'  he  said,  leaning  back,  'only  get  at  it 
if  you  can.  It's  important.' 

She  turned  now  to  the  Franciscan.  But  it  was  he  rather 
who  addressed  her. 

'But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  this  horrible  mar 
riage?' 

'Nothing,  nothing  at  all.' 

'But,  good  God,  it  is  desecration!  It  is  like  defiling  the 
bread  and  wine  of  communion.  Does  this  man  kiss  you? ' 


312  SPENDTHRIFTS 

'He  owns  the  better  part  of  two  railroads,'  she  said,  with 
a  kind  of  pitiful  look  in  her  eyes.  'He  is  here  now  to  push 
to  the  wall  —  if  he  can  —  a  man  already  overtaken  by 
mischance  and  misfortune.' 

'Why  do  you  evade?'  said  the  other.  'He  does  of  course 
touch  you,  he  owns  you,  along  with  the  better  part  of  two 
railroads.  He  fondles  you  at  his  pleasure.  I  would  not  have 
thought  it  possible.  Not  you;  not  you.' 

'You  forget,'  she  said,  and  still  her  voice  kept  the  strange 
ly  even  tone.  '  My  sister  was  ill,  dying,  I  thought.  I  could 
give  her  everything  by  this  means.  I  did  give  her  every 
thing.  She  is  better  now,  as  well  as  she  will  ever  be.  She 
could  not  bear  poverty;  it  was  killing  her.  She  never  could. 
She  is  better.' 

'But  at  what  horrible,  what  hellish  cost!'  he  replied. 
'She  was  selfish  always,  and  complaining;  one  of  the  useless 
ones;  and  moreover,  answer  me,  does  one  buy  a  cracked 
pitcher,  doomed  to  be  broken  at  any  rate,  with  the  most 
exquisite  pearl  in  the  world,  priceless  above  ten  sultans' 
ransoms?  Were  it  not  so  horrible  it  would  be  ridiculous. 
Does  one,  I  ask  you,  do  a  thing  like  that?' 

She  turned  to  her  husband. 

'He  says  he  believes  the  man  you  ask  about  was  once 
engaged  in  a  large  coal-mining  deal  in  the  West.' 

'Yes,'  said  the  heavy  man  eagerly,  leaning  forward  again 
to  listen  to  what  he  could  not  understand,  but  with  as  keen 
attention  as  though  he  comprehended  fully. 

'Wait  and  I  will  ask  him  more.' 

Again  she  turned  to  the  other. 

'But  you,  you  also  have  bought  unworthy  things  at  fear 
ful  cost?' 

'What?  In  God's  name,  what  have  I  bought?  I  who 
renounced  everything,  who  have  nothing  left  in  this  world 
but  the  memory  of  your  face  and  the  certainty  of  death? ' 


SPENDTHRIFTS  318 

'You  bought  for  yourself  the  approval  of  what  you  may 
choose  to  call  your  conscience,'  she  said  in  the  same  almost 
monotonous,  even  voice.  'You  bought  freedom  from  the 
world's  censure,  freedom  from  what  the  world  would  have 
said  had  you  married  me.' 

He  flung  out  a  trembling  hand.  I  thought  it  would  have 
betrayed  him. 

'That!  Will  you  bring  up  that  old  mad  folly  of  yours? 
Would  you  hope  to  persuade  me  it  was  not  my  duty  to  re 
nounce  you?  They  told  me  I  could  not  possibly  get  well. 
You  see  for  yourself.  You  see  now  how  I  am  changed.  I 
shall  last  now,  perhaps,  six  months.  You  had  nothing.  I 
had  nothing.  What  would  have  become  of  you,  not  to 
speak  of  all  the  horror?  It  was  clearly  my  duty.  I  leave  it 
to  any  man.' 

'Yes;  always  that.  The  opinion  of  others,'  she  said,  but 
even  still  without  emotion.  'I  do  not  care  for  the  opinion 
of  a  worldful.  I  accept  the  fact  that  you  could  not  get  well. 
I  tell  you  it  does  not  matter.  It  was  for  each  other  God 
made  us;  without  any  regard  to  circumstance.' 

'A  woman's  reason  is  not  reason,'  he  said.  'Any  man 
would  tell  you  it  was  my  duty  to  give  you  up.  The  world 
is  not  made  as  you  would  have  it.' 

'Listen,'  she  said.  (She  interrupted  herself  to  glance 
with  a  smile  at  her  husband,  and  said  to  him  in  English, 
'I  am  trying  to  explain  to  him.  He  is  a  little  dull.  He  does 
not  understand.')  'Listen '  —  she  spoke  again  to  the  other. 
'Be  reasonable.  See  it  as  it  is.  Do  not  cheat  yourself  into 
thinking  this  horrible  failure  of  ours  was  a  virtue.  Review 
the  facts  with  me  and  face  them.  These  are  they:  we  com 
promised  with  life,  and  in  a  cowardly  fashion.  I  married, 
to  buy  my  sister  health,  because  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
see  her  suffer.  You  renounced  me  and  went  away,  jso  that 
you  might  have  a  certain  peace  of  mind,  and  because  you 


314  SPENDTHRIFTS 

had  not  the  courage  to  go  counter  to  tradition  and  the 
world's  approval.  What  would  the  world  have  said  —  a 
man  as  ill  as  you  were,  to  accept  the  life  and  devotion  of 
a  woman?  It  was  that  that  tormented  and  swayed  you. 
You  left  me,  and  went  away  to  escape  that.  We  both 
bought  a  certain  worldly  peace  of  mind,  and  a  kind  of  con 
ventional  self -approval.  And  with  what?  With  what  did 
we  buy  these  trifling  things?  What  price  did  we  pay  for 
them?  We  bought  them  with  the  entire  wealth  and  treas 
ure  God  had  given  us  —  the  most  precious  in  his  treasuries, 
beside  which  kings'  ransoms  are  as  nothing.  We  bought 
these  trifles,  these  worthless  baubles,  with  the  priceless  love 
we  had  for  each  other.  He  gave  it  to  us  in  such  ample 
measure,  you  remember.  And  what  did  we  do  with  it? 
What  have  we  to  show  for  it  now?  In  God's  world  are  there 
to  be  found,  do  you  think,  two  such  spendthrifts?' 

*  There!  It  is  your  old  way,' he  replied.  *  You  speak  al 
ways  in  figures,  like  a  poet.  It  is  misleading.  Deal  only 
with  the  facts.  I  leave  them  to  any  one.  I  was  to  die  of  a 
lingering  illness.  I  had  no  money.  I  had  only  a  wealth  of 
horrors  to  drag  you  through.  A  slow  death  it  was  to  be. 
You  would  have  had  two  years  of  that.' 

'Two  years,'  she  repeated.  'I  have  been  married  eight 
months;  and  I  think  those  eight  months  have  been  twice 
eight  years.  And  two  years,  two  years  together,  you  and 
I!  But  oh,  if  it  had  been  one  year  only;  if  we  had  had  but 
one  year  together!  Only  one  year!'  There  was  a  kind  of 
pleading  in  her  voice.  'Only  one  year!  It  is  as  if  one  were 
to  say  "only  springtime  "  —  "only  love,"  — •  "only  heav 
en,"  —  "only  God!"  ' 

'What  does  he  say?'  said  her  husband.  Perhaps  he  was 
curious  at  the  tone  of  her  voice;  or  merely  impatient  at 
the  length  of  their  conversation. 

'Tell  him  anything,'  said  the  other,  'We  must  converse 


SPENDTHRIFTS  315 

at  any  cost.  Tell  him  anything  you  like;  only  do  not  cease 
to  speak  to  me/ 

She  turned  to  her  husband. 

'He  is  quite  interesting.  He  thinks  he  used  to  know  this 
man  when  he  was  a  child;  that  his  father  had  some  dealings 
with  him  in  that  very  coal  affair  in  Illinois.  Let  me  ques 
tion  him  a  little  more.  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by.  We  must 
not  seem  to  be  too  curious.  Do  not  interrupt  me;  just  let 
me  lead  him  on.  It  may  take  a  few  moments.' 

The  other  began  now,  without  waiting  for  her  to  take  up 
the  conversation. 

'  But  I  tell  you,  you  do  not  see  the  thing  as  it  is.  It  would 
have  been  a  criminal  thing  for  a  man  doomed  as  I  was,  to 
link  his  life  with  a  woman  like  you,  frail,  exquisite,  young, 
beautiful,  the  very  rose  of  the  world.  Is  it  permissible  for 
a  man  to  drag  a  woman  with  him  to  the  scaffold,  even  for 
love?  I  leave  it  to  any  man.' 

*  Yes,  to  any  man,'  —  her  reply  was  quick  on  his,  —  'but 
you  dare  not  leave  it  to  a  woman.  Any  man  would  tell  you 
it  is  not  permissible  that  one  about  to  die  should  lay  his 
hand  in  that  of  the  woman  he  loves.  And  any  man  would 
grant  you,  that  if  the  woman  is  his  wife,  —  if  that  tradition 
has  bound  them,  —  then  it  is  his  right  and  her  duty  that 
they  should  share  fatality,  even  though  they  have  not  the 
high  calling  of  love.  If  this  man  who  is  my  husband  were 
stricken,  you,  even  you,  would  expect  me  — ' 

The  sentence  broke  and  she  left  it  as  though  there  could 
be  no  need  of  making  the  truth  plainer.  Instead,  she  folded 
her  hands  tensely. 

'But,  oh,  let  us  not  argue.  We  have  squandered  God's 
treasure,  you  and  I.  We  have  squandered  it  for  the  sake 
of  convention,  for  old  precedents,  for  men's  opinions;  just 
as  this  man,  my  husband,  buys  railway  shares  and  mining 
properties  at  the  fearful  price  of  his  honor,  his  human  kind- 


316  SPENDTHRIFTS 

ness,  his  soul.  You  despise  him  and  shrink  from  him.  Truly, 
I  cannot,  except  when  he  lays  his  hand  upon  me;  for  we  are 
no  better  than  he.  That  is  the  horrible  part  of  it.  We  are 
all  three  spendthrifts,  the  three  of  us,  here  in  this  little 
space.  But  oh,  what  new  folly!  Only  think  of  our  spending 
these  precious,  precious  moments  in  argument!  Shall  we 
never  have  done  being  wasteful!' 

He  fell  in  with  her  thought  immediately. 

'You  love  me  still,  then.' 

'Yes,  always.' 

'Yet  I  have  not  the  right,  even  now,  to  so  much  as  touch 
your  hand.' 

'No;  yet  my  hand  lies  in  yours  by  the  hour.  These  are 
things  one  cannot  keep  from  God.' 

'Do  you  know,'  —  his  voice  was  even,  —  'I  cannot  help 
wondering  if  the  little  girl  over  there  in  the  corner  just 
might  possibly  understand.' 

'No;  I  think  not,'  she  said  gently;  'besides,  if  she  did,  it 
would  not  matter.' 

'No,  perhaps  not.  I  think  she  would  say  nothing.  I 
notice  that  her  eyes  are  shaped  somewhat  like  yours.  Some 
day  some  man  will  love  her  also.' 

'Yes,  without  doubt.  But  it  is  of  ourselves  I  would  talk. 
If  there  is  a  heaven,  there,  there,  you  shall  some  day  pos 
sess  me!' 

Her  husband  broke  in  now:  — 

'Are  you  finding  out  anything?' 

'Yes,  quite  a  little! '  She  smiled  palely,  then  turned  back 
to  the  other. 

'How  can  you  lie  to  him  like  that? '  he  said.  'And  I  also.' 

'We  waste  time,'  she  urged.  'A  carriage  meets  us  at  the 
next  town.  From  there  he  and  I  are  to  drive  over  to  the  ad 
joining  county.  You  and  I  have  only  a  few  moments  more 
left  at  the  most  in  this  world  together.' 


SPENDTHRIFTS  317 

'Yes.'  His  fingers  interlaced  tightly,  resting  in  his  lap. 
'Let  us  not  argue  any  more.  You  remember  the  night  by 
the  river,  O  my  beloved? ' 

'As  though  it  were  the  only  night  in  the  world.' 

'I  remember  that  at  first  I  dared  not  even  be  near  you; 
I  sat  on  the  bank  a  little  away  from  you,'  he  continued; 
'but  by  and  by  the  moon  came  up  and  all  around  us  was 
stillness  and  beauty;  the  sheep  slept  in  the  pasture;  the 
hills  were  all  cool  with  the  light  of  the  moon;  I  have  not 
forgotten;  I  can  never  forget — I  dared  just  to  lay  the  tips  of 
my  fingers  on  the  hem  of  your  gown.  You  did  not  notice 
that.  It  was  as  though  I  had  dared  lay  my  hand  on  the 
garment  of  God,  but  sweeter,  sweeter  even  than  that.' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  saw.  I  saw  and  felt.  And  it  was  exactly  as  if 
by  that  token  God  had  chosen  me  among  women,  as  he 
chose  the  Virgin;  only,  he  chose  me  there  in  the  moonlight, 
not  for  glory  and  suffering  as  he  chose  her,  but  just  for 
love.  He  chose  and  called  me  for  that.  I  was  to  love  you; 
was  chosen  by  that  touch  to  love  you;  only  you,  among  a 
thousand;  only  you  in  all  the  world  of  many  men.  And 
then,  just  then,  the  nightingale,  like  some  little  feathered 
angel  of  annunciation,  broke  into  song  in  the  trees  near  by.' 

'Yes;  and  to  me  it  was  as  if  white  fire  were  all  about  you 
—  as  about  some  altar;  and  I  was  afraid  to  touch  you.  I 
dared  not.  You  were  too  beautiful,  too  glorious.  The  night 
was  too  still,  too  holy.  And  then,  at  last,  I  reached  out  my 
hand  and  dared,  as  if  one  were  to  try  a  miracle.  I  laid  it 
on  yours.  And  still  I  lived.  And  then,  the  whole  scenery 
of  earth  and  heaven  shifted,  after  that  —  as  you  know. ' 
You  leaned  and  kissed  me.  Everything  was  changed  for 
ever.' 

'  Yes ;  I  know.  After  that  there  was  nothing  but  the  night 
and  the  silence,  and  thou  and  I.  Even  the  nightingale  did 
not  sing.' 


818  SPENDTHRIFTS 

'Yes.' 

'And  since  that  night  there  has  been  no  one  else  in  the 
world  but  only  thou  and  I.  Other  people,  do  they  not  seem 
like  shadows,  myriads  of  shadows,  like  the  inconsiderable 
leaves  of  a  forest  that  shall  fade  and  fall  and  be  renewed  — 
but  only  leaves  and  shadows?* 

'Only  thou  and  I,'  he  assented,  'in  the  wide  forest,  in  the 
woods  of  the  world.  And  soon,  soon,  soon,  I  shall  walk 
the  woods  no  more.' 

'Since  you  must  go,  do  not  be  discomfited,'  she  replied; 
'nor  trouble  at  all  this.  If  as  a  kind  of  lasting  torment,  to 
match  my  own,  you  were  permitted,  after  death,  to  be  near, 
to  see  this  man  kiss  and  possess  me,  you  have  but  to  re 
member  the  night  by  the  river  in  the  moonlight.  You  are 
but  to  remember  that  this  is  the  only  night  in  the  world; 
that  there  are  no  others;  that  the  rest  are  dreams;  that  no 
lips  but  yours  have  ever  really  touched  mine.'  Her  voice 
was  beautiful,  rich;  a  kind  of  farewell  in  itself.  'You  must 
promise  me  this.' 

Her  husband  leaned  forward  a  little  impatiently. 

'We  are  nearly  there.  Can't  you  find  out,  Louise,  what 
I  want  you  to?  The  thing  I  want  to  know  is  whether  he 
still  has  an  interest  in  the  coal  lands.  If  he  has  it  will  be 
worth  a  good  many  thousands.  Now  do  your  best.  Try.' 

'But  you  must  have  patience,'  she  said,  'I  am  trying  to 
find  out  something.' 

'I  cannot  quite  get  it  out  of  my  head,'  said  the  other, 
'that  we  deserve  to  be  damned  for  this.  Does  not  your 
conscience  misgive  you? ' 

'No;  rather  my  honor.  I  have  a  hatred  of  deception. 
It  is  the  only  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  deceived.  And 
you?' 

'I  might  do  penance.' 

He  smiled,  I  thought.   He  drew  the  cord  of  his  habit 


SPENDTHRIFTS  319 

through  his  slim  transparent  fingers  until  one  of  the  knots 
rested  in  his  palms. 

'You  could  not  really  mean  anything  so  horrible!  And 
your  body,  so  slim,  so  beautiful,  that  I  have  loved!' 

His  voice,  though  it  was  low,  rang  also,  now  —  quivered 
almost. 

'You  forget  that  the  stripes  might  be  sweet,  my  well- 
beloved,'  —  I  could  see  that  his  lips  trembled,  —  'some 
thing  still  suffered  for  your  sake.' 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  a  little  lovely  gesture,  as 
though  all  this  troubled  her,  perhaps  dazed  her;  or  perhaps 
it  was  some  old  recollection  in  his  voice. 

'How  absurd  we  are!  We  shall  be  parting  soon/ 

'Yes,'  he  said,  'for  always.  What  can  I  say  to  you  that 
you  will  remember? ' 

'Only  say  that  you  can  never  forget  the  night  by  the 
river/ 

'I  can  never  forget  it.' 

Something  in  his  words  fell  final,  like  a  fate. 

She  turned  now  to  her  husband.  The  stage  was  already 
slowing  up. 

'Is  this  the  county  seat?  I  have  found  out  quite  a  great 
deal.  I  will  tell  you  more  about  the  coal  lands  as  we  drive. 
He  is  an  interesting  man.' 

Suddenly,  from  having  been  intently  upon  them,  my 
attention  became  aware  of  a  familiar  sound,  the  thudding 
hundred-hoofed  sound  of  an  approaching  herd;  I  had  been 
so  absorbed  in  the  strange  world  of  the  other  happening 
that  I  had  not  known  of  their  approach.  Almost  suddenly 
they  were  about  us,  black  and  brown  backs,  spreading 
horns,  broad  wet  noses,  massive  foreheads. 

The  driver  looked  down  through  the  little  hole  reassur 
ingly. 

'Just  wait  till  they  get  past.  They're  on  their  way  to 
the  stockyards!' 


320  SPENDTHRIFTS 

We  waited,  the  four  of  us,  huddled  together,  with  a 
strange  kind  of  intimacy,  it  seemed,  in  the  'bus,  while  the 
trampling  mass  of  driven  dumb  creatures  surged  and  sway 
ed  around  us,  and  finally  struggled  painfully  by,  each 
crowding  the  other,  on  their  way  to  death.  The  woman 
watched  them  with  eyes  in  which  there  met  fear  and  pity. 

With  the  last  of  the  herd  past,  the  driver  was  already 
opening  the  stage  door.  The  woman's  husband  rose,  stoop 
ing. 

'If  you'll  allow  me,  I'll  get  out  first  with  these/ 

He  took  the  satchels  and  got  out  of  the  'bus,  heavily. 

He  turned  to  assist  the  woman.  She  did  not  give  him  her 
hand  at  once.  The  Franciscan  drew  back  a  little  to  let  her 
pass.  She  paused  the  fraction  of  a  moment  and  gave  her 
hand  to  him. 

'Good-bye/ 

When  she  was  beside  the  large  man  on  the  road,  he  also 
offered  his  hand  to  the  Franciscan. 

'Thank  you;  thank  you  very  much  indeed.' 

He  turned.  '  Guess  that 's  our  surrey  over  there,  Louise.' 
The  darkey  driver  of  the  surrey  hurried  toward  him.  'Yes; 
take  these.' 

The  woman  followed  him.  She  did  not  look  back.  He 
assisted  her  into  the  surrey  and  followed,  himself,  his  weight 
bending  it  heavily  to  one  side  as  he  entered. 

I  saw  them  drive  away,  along  a  broad  cross-road  into  the 
lovely  rolling  country,  her  brown  veil  floating  a  little,  un 
known  to  her,  but  like  a  living  thing,  with  a  little  wild 
waving  of  its  folds.  The  Franciscan  I  saw  follow  a  road  in 
another  direction.  The  curve  of  it  soon  hid  him.  I  did  not 
see  him  again. 

I  remained  in  the  'bus.  We  were  to  stay  only  a  little 
while  at  the  county  seat,  for  we  were  already  late.  New 


SPENDTHRIFTS  321 

horses  were  put  to  the  pole,  and  within  twenty  minutes 
we  were  driving  over  the  same  road  by  which  we  had 
come. 

An  old  gentleman  who,  I  think,  was  a  lawyer  returning 
from  county  court,  was  the  only  other  occupant,  and  he 
was  soon  dozing.  It  was  a  strange  ride  back.  When  we 
came  to  Latonia  the  light  was  so  altered  as  to  make  a  new 
and  lovely  adventure  of  it.  The  sun  was  not  yet  set,  but 
the  sunlight  had  withdrawn  to  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees. 
Below,  the  hotel  lawn  was  cool,  almost  twilit,  mysterious 
in  shadows.  It  was  there  only  a  little  while  ago  that  I  had 
first  seen  these  two  coming  down  the  path  to  enter  the  'bus. 
The  last  few  hours  had  changed  life  for  me  entirely.  Though 
I  did  not  know  it  at  the  time,  I  know  now  that  the  two 
worlds  of  reality  and  of  romance  —  before  that  distinct 
and  separate  in  my  mind  and  all  untried  —  were  forever 
mingled  with  each  other  now,  for  me,  and  were  one  with 
my  own  life.  I  shall  never  henceforth  be  able  to  see  a  herd 
of  cattle  on  a  dusty  road  without  seeing  those  two  in  their 
last  meeting;  nor  shall  I  ever  see  any  who  remind  me  of 
him  or  her  without  a  sense  of  love  and  death  and  the 
inevitable. 

This  is  a  true  story.  I  have  never  told  it  before.  I  have 
kept  it  locked  away  as  something  too  cherished,  too  inti 
mate  to  share  with  any  one.  There  always  seemed  to  me  a 
finality  about  it  beyond  any  story  I  could  ever  read.  Yet 
I  am  telling  it  now,  partly  from  a  sense  of  honor,  partly 
from  a  hidden  hope;  because  it  was  not,  after  all,  finished 
that  day.  She  may  still  be  living.  This  may  chance  to  meet 
her  eye.  If  so,  I  would  have  her  know  that  the  dark-eyed 
child  who  rode  with  them  that  day  came  in  time,  by  that 
strange  chance,  so  much  more  strange  in  life  than  in  any 
story,  to  meet  just  what  she  had  met:  to  meet  Love,  the 

22 


322  SPENDTHRIFTS 

glorious  and  radiant  presence,  only  to  find  that  there 
walked  beside  Love,  —  road-companions  of  the  way,  — 
Poverty,  and  one  whose  face  had  all  the  likeness  of  Death. 
And  I  would  have  her  know  that,  because  of  that  day,  and 
because  of  the  memory  of  her  in  my  heart,  so  long  cher 
ished,  I,  at  the  chosen  moment,  laid  my  hand  in  that  of  the 
shining  Presence,  —  despite  those  other  presences,  —  to  go 
with  it,  in  what  paths  soever  it  might  lead  me. 

It  is  so,  I  take  it,  life  deals  with  us  more  largely  than  we 
know.  Fools  in  our  folly;  spendthrifts  though  we  may  be, 
throwing  priceless  wisdom  away  to  the  winds,  as  these  two 
had  done;  wasting  our  wealth  and  our  substance  of  joy 
irretrievably;  careless  of  God's  treasure  intrusted  to  us; 
squandering  gold  worth  the  ransom  of  all  the  kings  of  the 
earth,  and  this  for  some  trifling  thing,  some  inconsiderable 
bauble;  yet  God,  unknown  to  us,  does  most  usually,  no 
doubt,  save  from  our  wrecked  fortunes  and  our  lost  argosies 
something  —  something  precious  still,  and  above  price  — 
with  which,  at  a  future  day,  with  merciful  largesse  of  wis 
dom  and  of  love,  some  other  soul  may  yet  be  blest  and  may 
yet  be  enriched,  as  it  were  by  all  the  treasure  of  the  earth. 


CHILDREN   WANTED 

BY   LUCY   PRATT 

THEY  were  sitting  at  the  breakfast  table  when  the  morn 
ing  mail  came  in.  There  was  something  for  Mr.  Henry 
Tarbell  —  there  was  always  something  for  him;  there  was 
something  for  Mrs.  Henry  Tarbell — -there  was  usually 
something  for  her.  The  only  thing  at  all  unusual  was  that 
there  was  something  for  Master  Crosby  Tarbell.  It  was 
rather  a  strange-looking  document,  too.  Beside  the  address 
was  a  picture  of  a  pony  with  a  long,  sweeping  tail,  and  just 
under  the  pony  were  some  words.  Crosby  was  learning  to 
read  in  a  school  which  was  proud  of  its  *  phonetic  method,' 
and  he  read  the  words  slowly,  with  many  little  lip  sounds 
to  help  him  on. 

*  Would  you  like  a  pony  for  your  vacation?  You  can  have 
her  free.' 

His  father's  glance  fell  on  the  picture. 

*  Hullo,  where  does  all  that  come  from?' 

'It  says  I  can  have  her  free,'  began  Crosby,  with  a  char 
acteristic  pause  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence,  which  always 
gave  the  effect  of  steadying  the  inclination  to  a  slight 
tremble  in  his  small,  earnest  voice;  'it  says  —  I  can  have 
her  free.'  His  face  flushed.  'Can  I  — have  her,  father?' 

'Where  would  you  keep  her?'  inquired  his  father  cas 
ually,  opening  a  letter.  'In  the  kitchen?' 

'No,  in  the — -in  the  barn!  They  used  to  keep  a  horse 
there  —  before  we  lived  here!  I  —  I  could  keep  her  in  the 
barn!' 

'M — m,  barn?  I'm  afraid  she  would  n't  recognize  it.' 

'But  there's  a  stall  there!  A  nice  stall!  Couldn't  I  have 
her?' 


324  CHILDREN   WANTED 

His  father  looked  up  again. 

*  What's  this?  A  prize  contest?  Oh,  I  see.'  He  smiled 
absently  as  he  went  on  with  his  mail.  *  Yes,  it's  safe  to  say 
you  can  have  her  —  if  you  can  get  her.' 

Crosby's  face  flushed  slowly  again,  and  his  eyes  looked 
very  bright. 

'If  you  can  get  her,'  repeated  his  father,  pushing  his 
chair  back  and  looking  at  his  watch;  'but  you  can't, 
Crosby.  There  is  n't  a  chance  in  a  thousand  that  you 
could.'  He  put  his  watch  in  his  pocket  and  looked  at  his 
wife.  'Well,  I  must  go.  Come  on,  old  man.  Better  take 
your  pony  correspondence  outside!  Too  good  a  day  for 
the  house.' 

From  the  low  porch-steps  Crosby  waved  an  absent  good 
bye,  his  eyes  still  on  the  pictured  pony.  As  he  tore  away 
some  yellow  seals,  a  letter  fell  out,  and  he  creased  the  big 
folder  again  and  cautiously  sat  down  on  it  so  that  it  would 
not  blow  away.  Then  he  spread  the  letter  across  his  knees. 

It  was  more  than  half  an  hour  later  that  he  looked  up 
and  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  It  was  the  first  really  f  ull- 
sized  breath  that  he  had  taken  s^ince  he  began  the  letter 
—  and  he  had  just  finished  it.  His  eyes  dwelt  on  the  last 
sentences  again,  and  as  he  pulled  the  folder  from  under 
him,  they  traveled  back  to  the  beginning. 

'I  have  some  good  news  for  you!'  It  read  more  easily 
this  time.  '  What  would  make  you  happier  than  anything 
else  you  can  think  of?  To  have  me  tell  you  that  you  can 
have  a  pony  of  your  own? '  The  characteristic,  slow  flush 
came  into  his  cheeks.  '  Well,  that  is  just  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you!  Because  on  the  twentieth  of  August  we  are  going 
to  give  away  to  some  boy  or  girl,  one  of  the  prettiest  little 
Indian  ponies  you  ever  saw.  Her  name  is  "Lightfoot,"  and 
you  can  have  her  if  you  get  started  right  away.  The  thing  is 
to  start  right  out  — ' 


CHILDREN  WANTED  325 

Oh,  he  understood  the  rest  perfectly!  He  was  simply  to 
get  subscriptions  for  the  most  delicious  breakfast  food  that 
had  ever  been  boxed  for  the  public  market !  Its  name?  Butter 
cup  Crisps!  He  was  simply  to  get  the  names  of  people  who 
were  willing  to  put  their  names  down  for  one  order  or  more 
of  Buttercup  Crisps ! 

'Buttercup  Crisps!'  he  whispered,  and  caught  another 
deep  breath  at  the  mere  sound  of  it,  as  he  opened  up  the 
big  folder.  'A  Prize  for  Every  Contestant! '  It  stared  at  him 
in  huge  letters,  and  his  eyes  traveled  swiftly  from  the  shin 
ing  bicycle  to  the  little  mahogany  writ  mg-desk,  to  the  vio 
lin,  to  the  beautiful  gold  watch  —  then  rested  again  gently, 
lingeringly,  on  THE  PONY.  Just  once  again  his  glance 
shifted  to  the  sentence  which  seemed  to  shine  out  from  all 
the  others.  'Her  name  is  "Lightfoot"  and  you  can  have  her 
if  you  get  started  right  away.' 

He  gathered  up  all  his  papers  and  went  in. 
4 Mother—'  he  began;  but  he  found  that  he  needed  a 
steadying  pause  at  the  very  beginning.    'Mother  —  can  I 
go  out  —  for  a  little  while?  I  want  to  —  do  something.' 
She  looked  at  the  folded  sheets  in  his  hand. 
'  O  Crosby,  that 's  so  foolish ! '  she  protested.   '  You  know 
you  could  n  't  get  that  pony,  no  matter  how  hard  you  tried.' 
'Well,  can  I  go?'  he  repeated,  sticking  characteristically 
to  the  original  question. 

'Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  would  n't  waste  my  time 
over  that,  if  I  were  you.  It's  too  warm  a  day.' 

He  was  already  storing  all  the  papers  and  pictures  inside 
his  waist  for  safe  keeping,  and  as  he  marched  steadily  down 
town  toward  'the  centre,'  he  kept  one  hand  of  protection 
upon  them  and  made  out  a  careful  plan  of  campaign.  He 
must  go  to  every  house  in  town,  beginning  with  the  one 
right  there,  next  the  post-office.  But  it  was  n't  a  house. 
It  was  a  store.  Never  mind,  he  would  begin  with  the 


326  CHILDREN  WANTED 

store.  He  felt  very  strange,  though,  as  he  stood  before 
the  counter,  while  the  man  behind  it  waited,  flirting  some 
string  which  hung  down  from  a  suspended  ball,  and  evi 
dently  quite  ready  for  business. 

4  Would  you  like,'  began  Crosby,  his  voice  growing  so 
faint  that  he  had  to  swallow  to  get  it  back  again;  'would 
you  like  —  some  Buttercup  Crisps?* 

'Like  some  what?9  bawled  the  man. 

Crosby  had  an  idea  that  he  might  get  arrested  if  he 
asked  that  again,  at  least  if  he  did  n  't  make  some  variation, 
so  he  launched  desperately  into  another  construction. 

'It's  something  — to  eat!  For  breakfast!  Buttercup 
Crisps!  It  comes  — •  in  boxes.' 

'Well,  what  about  it?'  questioned  the  man  behind  the 
counter  distractedly. 

«j. —  do  you — do  you  want  some?'  continued  Crosby 

bravely. 

'No,  I  don't,'  declared  the  man  behind  the  counter  with 
both  strength  and  finality.  '  'T  would  n 't  make  any  differ 
ence  what  it  came  in !  I  'm  so  overrun  now  with  these  break 
fast  concoctions  that  there  ain't  room  left  for  anything 
else!' 

'Yes,  sir,'  returned  Crosby  politely,  and  walked  out  to 
the  street  again. 

It  was  not  a  very  promising  beginning,  to  be  sure,  but 
it  was  a  relief  to  have  that  first  dreadful  plunge  over. 
Perhaps  it  would  n 't  be  so  bad  after  that.  And  he  marched 
on  to  the  next  house,  which  was  a  house  and  not  a  store. 
A  middle-aged  colored  woman,  in  an  ample  white  apron, 
came  to  the  door  and  stood  smiling  at  him  while  he  screwed 
his  courage  into  words  again. 

'Would  you  like  —  would  you  like  —  to  try  a  few  But 
tercup  Crisps?'  he  asked,  with  a  fleeting  consciousness 
that  he  had  made  a  really  elegant  effort. 


CHILDREN  WANTED  327 

*  Wat's  dat,  chile?'  inquired  the  woman  of  color  in 
kindly  tones. 

*  Buttercup   Crisps ! '   stammered   Crosby.     '  Crisps!    A 
few—' 

'One  o'  dese  yere  breakfus'  fancies,  I  s'pose?'  came  the 
kindly  encouragement.  'An'  it  soun'  good,  too,  dqan't  it? 
But '  —  she  lowered  her  voice  to  a  note  of  confidential 
intimacy  —  'dey  doan't  'low  me  ter  transac'  no  business 
at  de  do',  chile,  no  matter  w'at  yer  offers.  Dey  would  n't 
trus'it!' 

'Yes'm,'  returned  Crosby  faintly,  and  walked  down  the 
steps. 

It  made  him  positively  dizzy  to  think  of  asking  that 
question  again.  But  his  hand  rose  mechanically  to  the 
folded  papers  under  his  waist,  and  once  more  a  vision  of  a 
beautiful,  long-tailed  pony  swept  before  his  eyes. 

'It  said  I  could  have  her  if  I  got  started  right  away,'  he 
reasoned  steadily,  'and  I  have  got  started  right  away, 
so  I  —  I  guess  I  better  keep  right  on.' 

He  looked  so  hot  and  tired  when  he  came  in  to  dinner, 
that  his  mother  glanced  at  him  questioningly. 

'Why,  Crosby,  where  have  you  been?  You  look  perfectly 
roasted.  Is  is  so  hot  in  the  sun?  Well,  don't  go  out  again 
this  afternoon  until  it's  cooler.' 

'I'm  not  —  so  very  hot,'  he  assured  her. 
But  he  thought,  himself,  that  he  would  n't  go  out  again 
right  away.  He  had  been  to  a  good  many  houses  that  morn 
ing,  but  for  some  reason  he  had  not  a  real  name  to  show 
for  it.  He  had  not  seen  the  right  people !  Most  of  them  had 
been  servants,  and  of  course  they  could  n  't  have  bought 
Buttercup  Crisps  —  if  they  had  wanted  to.  No  —  he  must 
begin  asking  for  'the  lady  of  the  house.'  And  he  must 
become  more  familiar  with  the  literature  of  his  folder.  Its 
advertising  value  was  his  chief  asset. 


328  CHILDREN  WANTED 

He  set  forth  the  next  morning  with  new  hope  and  confi 
dence.  And  something  very  exhilarating  soon  happened. 
The  very  first  'lady  of  the  house'  who  smiled  down  at  him 
from  her  doorway,  as  he  explained  with  conscientious, 
steadying  pauses,  the  full  meaning  of  his  call,  and  then, 
pointing  to  the  pictured  pony,  explained,  with  even  longer 
steadying  pauses,  that  he  wanted  to  get  her  for  a  prize  — 
why,  that  very  first  generous  lady  decided  that  she  would 
give  him  her  name  for  six  boxes  of  Buttercup  Crisps! 
Crosby  fairly  tottered  with  the  monstrous  significance  of  it. 
But  as  he  drew  more  papers  out  from  under  his  waist 
and  found  the  page  where  subscribers'  names  were  to  be 
written,  she  glanced  it  hastily  over. 

'Yes,  now  I  am  to  give  you  seventy-five  cents/  she 
explained  kindly,  as  she  wrote  her  name,  'and  it  tells  you 
in  this  little  notice  here  that  that  counts  you  one  point. 
It  says,  too,  I  see,  that  it  takes  six  points  to  become  a 
contestant.' 

'Everybody  gets  a  prize,'  explained  Crosby;  and  he 
unfolded  the  beautiful  folder  again  with  its  large  and  fre 
quent  letters  of  assurance  still  staring  joyously. 

'Yes,  but — '  She  looked  down  at  his  small,  upturned 
face,  and  flushed  with  a  kind  of  helpless  shame,  —  'but 
don't  you  see,  dear  child  —  it  tells  you  here,  in  fine  print, 
that  it  takes  six  points  to  become  a  contestant? ' 

Crosby  looked  puzzled.  'Every  contestant  gets  — a 
prize,'  he  repeated  slowly.  'Does  that  mean  that  if  you 
work  —  and  get  names  —  that  perhaps  you  won't  get  a 
prize  either?' 

'That's  just  what  it  means,  and  I  would  n't  bother  with 
it  if  I  were  you.  You  see  it  means  so  much  work  for  you 
—  and  it's  so  uncertain.' 

'But  the  letter  —  was  written  to  me,'  explained  Crosby. 
'And  the  Pony  Man  says  —  I  can't  lose!' 


CHILDREN   WANTED  329 

'Well,  then  he 's  saying  what  is  n 't  so.  Because  you  can 
lose  very  easily,  and  I  'm  very  much  afraid  that  you  will. 
But  if  you  want  to  keep  trying,'  —  she  just  touched  his 
cheek  with  her  hands,  —  '  I — •  I  hope  that  you  will  be 
successful ! ' 

He  went  down  the  steps  with  a  troubled  face,  tying 
three  silver  quarters  into  the  corner  of  his  handkerchief. 
So  he  did  not  yet  understand  all  those  printed  documents ! 
He  looked  up  and  down  the  warm,  tree-lined  street,  and 
sat  down  under  the  first  tree,  spreading  them  all  carefully 
out  upon  the  grass.  When  he  got  up  and  started  on  again, 
he  still  looked  troubled,  but  there  was,  too,  a  look  of  patient 
determination  about  him  —  entirely  characteristic.  He 
understood  it  all  now.  He  understood  about  the  points. 

At  dinner-time  his  eyes  looked  very  bright.  He  had  six 
names  on  his  list  for  varying  and  assorted  orders  of  Butter 
cup  Crisps !  As  he  brought  out  all  his  money  and  showed  it 
to  his  mother,  she  smiled  at  him  and  told  him  that  he  was 
wasting  his  time.  But  he  looked  back  at  her  with  bright, 
confident  eyes,  as  he  went  out  again,  his  precious  papers 
still  buttoned  under  his  waist. 

As  his  campaign  went  on  with  steadily  growing  success, 
he  trudged  off  as  regularly  as  possible  every  morning,  back 
again  at  noon  and  again  at  night.  His  mother  listened  and 
smiled  at  explanations  of  wonderful  progress,  at  the  grow 
ing  list  of  names,  and  occasionally  his  father  half  listened, 
and  smiled  too. 

After  perhaps  three  weeks  of  it,  there  came  a  day  when 
Crosby's  most  confident  hope,  at  all  times  unwavering, 
became  a  thing  which  seemed  to  soar  away  with  him  into  a 
kind  of  pony  heaven,  where  he  heard  only  the  word  'Light- 
foot/  and  saw  only  one  beautiful  animal  with  a  long,  sweep 
ing  tail,  because  it  kept  flashing  so  continuously  before  his 
eyes.  That  was  the  day  when  he  was  obliged  to  send  for  a 


330  CHILDREN  WANTED 

new  subscription  blank.  That  was  the  day  when  his  hope, 
if  it  had  ever  in  the  past  wavered  even  unconsciously,  be 
came  a  thing  of  absolute  fixedness.  And  when  there  were 
seven  new  names  on  the  new  blank,  and  his  little  bag  of 
money  was  so  fat  and  heavy  that  he  doubted  whether  it 
would  hold  any  more,  anyway,  he  had  a  conference  with  his 
mother  about  dates,  and  decided  that  it  was  time  — •  it  was 
the  day  to  send  everything  —  all  the  returns  —  to  the 
Pony  Man. 

She  helped  him,  with  the  same  smile  of  forbearance, 
about  the  money-order,  made  out  with  such  dashing  effect 
by  the  man  at  the  post-office,  and  together  they  got  off 
an  impressive-looking  envelope  full  of  impressive-looking 
matter.  It  gave  just  the  last  touch  of  safety  and  surety  to 
it  all  to  have  his  mother  helping,  and  Crosby  looked  up 
at  her  with  shining  eyes. 

*  You  can  ride  in  the  pony-cart,  —  after  the  pony  comes, 
—  can't  you?' 

It  took  longer  pauses  than  usual  to  keep  things  steady 
that  time,  and  her  glance  wandered  to  his  bright  eyes. 

*  Would  you  be  very  much  disappointed  if  it  did  n  't 
come?* 

A  puzzled  reproach  crept  over  his  face.  She  felt  guilty 
of  an  unwarrantable  suspiciousness  of  nature  as  he  looked 
back  at  her  —  and  then  hurried  off  to  the  old  stall  in  the 
barn.  It  seemed  so  strange  not  to  have  to  think  about 
names  any  more.  He  could  give  all  his  time  to  the  barn 
now.  He  wished  that  it  was  a  nicer  one,  but  with  a  little 
well-spent  labor  he  thought  he  might  make  it  very  present 
able,  after  all. 

It  was  the  next  morning,  after  he  had  been  working 
there  with  a  fixed,  concentrated  pucker  between  his  eyes 
for  almost  three  hours,  that  a  small  boy  from  the  next 
house  appeared. 


CHILDREN  WANTED  331 

'Say,  Crosby,'  lie  began,  'there  's  a  lady  lives  up  there 
on  the  hill  road  —  you  know,  after  you've  crossed  the  long 
bridge  and  turned  up  on  the  hill  road?'  Crosby  nodded. 
'Well,  there's  a  lady  lives  up  there  says  she'll  be  glad  to 
help  you.  You  know,  for  the  pony  you 're  trying  to  get.  I 
was  telling  her  about  it  yesterday,  and  she  said  she  did  n  't 
know  anything  about  the  breakfast  food,  but  she'd  be 
glad  to  help  you  just  the  same/ 

'But  I've  sent  the  names  already,'  explained  Crosby, 
looking  perplexed  with  fortune's  almost  immoderate 
favors. 

'Well,  send  hers  alone.   Can't  you  do  that?' 

Crosby  meditated.  'What  house  did  you  say  she  lired 
in?' 

'  It 's  the  only  house  up  there  on  the  hill  road.  You  know ! 
The  big,  white  house.  You  could  n't  miss  it.' 

'I  guess  I  better  go  up  there  then.' 

He  glanced  out  to  the  street,  where  the  sun  simmered  on 
the  white,  hot  road,  and  wiped  some  little  beads  of  per 
spiration  from  his  forehead.  Then  he  walked  slowly  out 
through  the  yard. 

When,  what  seemed  a  long  time  afterwards,  he  dragged 
himself  in  from  the  simmering,  white  street  again,  his  legs 
pulling  listlessly  behind  him,  he  even  forgot,  for  the  time 
being,  what  the  walk  had  all  been  about,  and  sat  down 
vacantly  on  the  cool  step  in  the  shade,  his  cheeks  burning 
a  deep,  dull  red.  Then  he  remembered  and  pulled  himself 
up  again.  And  that  evening  another  letter  started  on  its 
way  to  the  Pony  Man. 

The  next  morning  he  waked  up  with  a  confused  con 
sciousness  that  something  important  was  hanging  over 
him.  Gradually  it  came  back  quite  clearly.  It  was  the 
twentieth.  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  became  aware  of 
facing  a  quite  unheralded  question  of  challenge.  Was  there 


332  CHILDREN  WANTED 

any  doubt  about  the  pony's  coming?  His  long  list  of  subscrip 
tion  names  flashed  before  his  eyes,  his  big,  shining  pile  of 
money,  his  mother's  smile,  the  post-office  man's  'whew!' 
of  admiration  before  he  made  out  the  money-order,  the 
promises  in  the  letter  if  he  began  'right  away'  and  worked 
—  and  he  had  worked  all  the  time  ever  since !  There  was 
but  one  possible  answer  to  that  question.  The  pony  would 
come  —  to-day  —  before  night. 

He  stumbled  gayly  down  the  stairs  as  he  thought  of  all 
that  he  was  going  to  do  that  morning  in  the  barn.  It  was 
such  a  strange,  rickety  little  affair,  that  barn;  it  did  seem 
to  look  so  much  more  like  a  shed  than  anything  else,  that 
he  was  continually  haunted  by  his  father's  words:  'Barn? 
I  'm  afraid  she  would  n't  recognize  it.'  But  he  could  make 
it  clean,  anyway,  if  it  was  n't  new.  He  looked  up  at  the 
battered  manger,  from  his  kneeling  position  on  the  floor, 
as  he  scrubbed  with  soap  and  water,  and  wondered  what 
he  could  do  about  that.  Something  he  was  sure.  Why, 
there  were  plenty  of  ways  to  do  things  if  you  only  had  sense. 
He  thought  he  must  be  mistaken  when  he  heard  his  mother 
calling  him  to  dinner;  but  then,  when  he  stopped  and  looked 
around,  he  felt  a  tired  glow  of  satisfaction.  The  walls  and 
floor  of  the  old  stall  had  not  changed  color,  as  he  had  hoped 
they  would  by  washing,  but  they  looked  damp,  and  clean, 
too.  Across  the  battered  front  of  the  manger  was  tacked  a 
shining  but  crooked  piece  of  clean,  brown  paper,  and  inside 
was  a  fresh  little  pile  of  grass  and  three  large,  round  ginger- 
cakes  beside  it.  But  Crosby's  eyes  traveled  most  lovingly 
to  a  small  row  of  implements  which  hung  down  from  the 
wall,  at  one  side,  from  nails  which  he  had  pounded  in.  Of 
course  ponies  had  to  be  groomed,  and  he  looked  up  proudly 
at  the  small,  clean  brush,  hanging  by  a  string  and  sugges 
tive  no  longer  of  the  sink;  at  the  worn  whisk-broom  next; 
at  the  broken  comb;  and  finally  at  a  little,  shrunken  last 


CHILDREN  WANTED  333 

winter's  glove,  with  its  fingers  cut  off  evenly,  which  com 
pleted  the  line.  He  would  wear  that  glove  when  he  did 
his  daily  grooming. 

'I'll  finish  everything  after  dinner,'  he  meditated,  and 
went  in. 

When  he  came  back,  a  saucer  of  milk  trembled  danger 
ously  in  one  hand,  and  with  a  faint,  half-conscious  smile 
flickering  about  his  mouth,  he  put  it  down  on  the  floor  in 
the  corner. 

'She  '11  be  thirsty  when  she  gets  here,'  he  reasoned;  and 
then,  half  apologetically,  he  glanced  down  at  a  big,  loose 
bunch  of  summer  goldenrod,  supported  by  the  other  hand. 
Standing  high  on  his  toes,  he  propped  it  very  jauntily  over 
a  time-worn  beam  just  opposite  the  door.  'To  look  nice 
when  she  comes  in,'  he  whispered;  and  then  he  cast  round  a 
final  look,  sighed  a  tired  sigh  of  satisfaction  —  and  went 
out  and  closed  the  door. 

He  wandered  about  restlessly  that  afternoon,  and  finally, 
with  a  queer,  light  feeling  in  his  head,  that  he  associated 
dimly  with  the  long  walk  on  the  hill  road  the  day  before, 
he  turned  out  of  the  yard  and  struck  off  across  the  street 
in  the  direction  of  the  railroad  station.  He  wanted  to  in 
quire  about  trains  and  the  station  was  near.  Besides,  he 
knew  the  station-master,  and  he  would  tell  him  just  what 
he  wanted  to  know. 

To  be  sure!  The  station-master  was  both  alert  and 
intelligent. 

'A  pony  from  New  York? '  he  echoed.  'You're  expect 
ing  a  pony  from  New  York?  Well,  now  I  hope  you 
are  n't  going  to  be  disappointed  about  it!  You  say  it  was 
to  leave  New  York  to-day?  Well,  there  's  a  New  York- 
Boston  train  that  gets  in  here  at  half -past  six.  That 's  the 
last  one  there  is.  So  if  there  's  any  pony  coming,  she  '11  be  on 


334  CHILDREN  WANTED 

that  train,  won't  she?  Yes,  if  she  's  coming  at  all,  she  '11  be 
on  that  train.' 

*  Half -past  six?   What  time  is  it — now?'   questioned 
Crosby. 

*  It 's  just  half -past  four.   Now,  you  don 't  want  to  hang 
round  here  for  two  hours.    No,  you  run  home  and  make 
yourself  easy.  I  pass  your  place  on  my  way  home  to  supper, 
and  if  you  're  outside  I  '11  let  you  know  whether  there 's  any 
thing  for  you.  But  I  would  n't  get  my  hopes  up  too  high.' 

Crosby  looked  up  gratefully.  He  had  not  even  heard  the 
last  sentence.  He  was  already  making  his  way  out  of  the 
station  and  back  home  again,  wondering  just  how  he  could 
spend  all  that  time. 

Two  hours  later,  his  father  came  swinging  up  the  walk. 
Crosby,  sitting  on  the  grass  close  to  the  sidewalk,  hardly 
saw  him.  He  thought  he  saw  some  one  else  —  away  down 
the  walk  —  moving  slowly  towards  him. 

'Hullo,  Crosby,'  began  his  father  cheerfully.  'What  you 
doing?  Looking  at  the  view?' 

Crosby  smiled  faintly,  but  his  eyes  were  straining  away 
down  the  walk. 

'You  look  pale,  son;  what's  the  matter?  You'd  better 
come  in  to  supper.' 

'  No,  it  is  n't  going  to  be  ready  —  quite  yet,  mother  said.' 

His  father  gave  him  another  questioning  look  and  went 
on  into  the  house. 

'What's  the  matter  with  Crosby?'  he  asked  inside.  'He 
looks  as  if  he'd  been  frightened  half  to  death.' 

'Oh,  he's  worrying  himself  to  pieces  about  that  pony. 
He 's  been  fussing  round  in  the  barn  all  day  long.  He  really 
thinks  he  's  going  to  get  it,  I  suppose/ 

'Pony?  What  pony?  Has  he  been  working  himself  to 
death  over  that  business?  What's  he  been  doing  in  the 
barn?' 


CHILDREN  WANTED  335 

He  walked  through  the  house  and  down  the  back  steps 
and  crossed  the  yard.  Then  he  opened  the  door  which  led 
directly  into  the  old  stall  and  stopped. 

*  Oh,  Lord  above  us ! '  he  whispered. 

Never,  since  he  was  a  child,  a  child  like  the  one  who  had 
just  looked  up  at  him  from  the  grass,  had  such  an  over 
mastering  desire  swept  over  him  to  sit  down,  right  where 
he  was,  and  drop  his  head  down  into  his  hands  —  and  cry. 

'Oh,  Lord  above  us!'  he  whispered  again  faintly,  push 
ing  his  hand  up  to  his  eyes. 

It  was  all  just  as  it  had  been  left,  the  old  walls  and  floor 
with  great  splinters  scoured  out  of  them  everywhere;  the 
manger  with  its  shining,  crooked  front  of  clean,  brown 
paper;  the  little  hanging  row  of  grooming  implements:  the 
small  brush,  the  worn  whisk-broom,  the  comb,  the  little  old 
glove,  the  pile  of  grass  in  the  manger,  and  the  three  ginger- 
cakes,  the  saucer  of  milk  in  the  corner  —  and  the  jaunty 
bunch  of  goldenrod  nodding  down  upon  it  all  from  the 
beam  just  opposite  the  door. 

He  pushed  his  hands  blindly  to  his  eyes  again;  then  he 
went  out,  closed  the  door,  and  walked  down  the  yard  where 
Crosby  was  sitting  —  no,  he  was  standing,  standing  and 
looking  dumbly  after  a  man  who  was  walking  away  and 
blowing  his  nose. 

*  Crosby, '  began  his  father  huskily,  *  Crosby,  —  come 
into  the  house,  come  in  to  supper,  —  I  want  to  see  you/ 

Crosby  looked  up  with  dry,  hunted-looking  eyes,  and 
his  chin  trembled  just  perceptibly. 

'I'm  coming  —  in  just  a  minute,'  he  began,  with  a 
quivering  appeal  in  the  dry,  hunted  eyes  to  be  left  —  to  be 
left  alone  —  just  for  a  minute ! 

His  father  turned  and  went  up  the  steps,  while  Crosby's 
gaze  shifted  mechanically  back  to  the  man  who  was  going 
on  up  the  street.  But  he  turned,  too,  slowly,  and  crossed 


336  CHILDREN  WANTED 

the  yard  to  the  barn  and  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  He 
hoped  no  one  had  seen  it,  and  he  pulled  off  the  brown  paper 
from  the  manger  and  wrapped  it  round  the  pile  of  ginger- 
cakes.  Then  he  reached  up  for  the  little  row  of  grooming 
implements  and  took  them  down  one  by  one. 

When  Crosby  was  three,  he  had  tumbled  down  on  a 
brick  walk  one  day,  and  had  sat  up  winking  vaguely  while 
drops  of  blood  ran  down  his  face  —  and  tried  to  smile  at 
his  mother.  It  had  never  been  just  natural  for  Crosby  to 
cry  when  he  was  hurt;  but  as  he  came  slowly  back  into  the 
old  stall  and  stooped  down  to  take  up  the  saucer  of  milk, 
something  dropped  with  a  splashing  sound  into  the  milk, 
making  rings  away  out  to  the  edge.  He  raised  his  arm  and 
dragged  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  then  he  reached  up  for 
the  jaunty  bunch  of  flowers  on  the  beam.  But  that  strange, 
light  feeling  in  his  head,  dimly  associated  with  the  hill  road, 
seemed  to  confuse  him  again  —  and  he  could  not  just  re 
member  what  he  was  going  to  do  next.  As  he  pushed  open 
the  door,  he  tripped  over  some  scattered  goldenrod,  and 
then  went  stumbling  along  to  the  house. 

'He  said  —  I  could  have  her  —  if  I  got  started  right  off 
—  he  said  —  I  could  have  her  —  if  I  got  started  right 
off  —  he  said  —  he  said  —  he  said  I  could  have  her  —  if  I 
got  started  — ' 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  door. 

'Come  in  —  Crosby  — •'  she  began  brokenly,  'come  in  — ' 

'  He  said  —  I  could  have  her  —  if  I  got  started  right  off! '  he 
shrieked  out  in  a  high,  quivering,  babyish  wail,  '  and  —  I 
did  — •  get  started  —  right  —  off  — ' 

'Hush  —  hush!  You  have  worked  —  so  hard!  You  are 
so  tired!'  She  looked,  with  frightened  eyes,  at  his  dully 
burning  cheeks. 

'Take  him  up  to  bed — let  me  take  him  up,'  came  a 


CHILDREN  WANTED  337 

husky  voice  behind  them;  and  he  was  lifted  in  his  father's 
arms  and  carried  upstairs. 

As  they  undid  the  straining  buttons  of  the  well-filled 
little  waist,  some  papers  dropped  down  to  the  floor  and 
the  man  stooped  and  picked  them  up.  He  looked  at  them 
and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

'I'm  going  to  call  up  the  doctor,'  he  whispered. 

But  after  the  doctor  had  come  and  gone,  he  went  upstairs 
again  and  sat  down  by  the  bed,  while  his  shocked  eyes 
sought  the  small,  still  upturned  face.  It  was  so  character 
istic  of  the  boy  that,  in  a  high  fever,  he  should  not  chatter 
in  delirium,  that  he  should  not  scream  wild  things  about  a 
pony,  that  he  should  only  lie  there  quietly,  with  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  face  turned  upwards.  For  a  long  time  the 
watcher  by  the  bed  looked  down  in  the  nickering  half-light, 
and  then  he  went  downstairs  to  his  study  and  shut  the 
door.  When  he  had  read  the  papers,  which  he  took  from 
his  pocket,  from  beginning  to  end,  he  placed  a  clean  sheet 
sharply  on  the  desk  before  him,  and  with  his  mouth  closed 
into  a  taut,  straight  line  which  relaxed  into  no  curve  of 
compromise  as  his  pen  marched  down  the  sheet,  Mr.  Henry 
Tarbell  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Pony  Man. 

He  sealed  and  directed  it  —  and  walked  out  of  the  house, 
with  long  strides,  to  the  post-box. 

It  was  many  days  later  that  he  hung  over  the  bed  where 
a  child  lay  tired  out  with  fever,  and  gently  said  something 
that  he  thought  might  bring  a  little  light  back  into  the 
white  face. 

'They  did  send  you  a  prize,  Crosby,  after  all!  A  first- 
class  little  prize  that  has  just  come  this  morning!  Look!' 
And  he  held  up  a  small  but  crisply  ticking  watch  upon  a 
cheaply  shining  chain. 

Crosby  reached  up  his  hand.  '  I  don't  believe  —  it  would 
keep  the  —  right  time  —  would  it? '  he  asked  slowly,  with  a 


338  CHILDREN  WANTED 

suspiciousness  quite  new.  And  his  unwavering  eyes  sought 
his  father's. 

'  Why  did  they  —  write  such  a  —  lie  to  me  —  about  the 
pony? '  he  challenged  faintly. 

'Forget  it,  boy!'  returned  his  father  gayly.  'We'll  have 
a  pony  yet!  We  '11  have  to  have  one  to  get  the  color  back 
into  your  face,  I  'm  thinking!  Say,  sonny, I  'm  glad  you  got 
the  old  stall  fixed  up  for  it,  are  n't  you?  ' 

The  unwavering  eyes  were  still  upon  his  father,  and  the 
first  entirely  unresisted  tears  that  any  one  had  ever  seen 
in  them  since  he  stepped  out  of  his  baby's  dresses  and 
marched  forth  to  life,  with  brave  but  unaccustomed  feet, 
and  steadying  pauses,  slipped  quietly  down  the  white 
cheeks. 

'  You  —  you  would  n  't  —  talk  that  way  —  unless  you 
meant  it ! '  whispered  Crosby. 


THE  SQUIRE 

BY    ELSIE    SINGMASTER 

THE  squire  was  a  bachelor,  and  lived  alone  in  his  house; 
therefore  he  was  able  to  use  the  parlor  and  dining-room  for 
offices.  The  parlor  contained  only  a  pine  desk,  a  map,  hang 
ing  'at'  the  wall,  as  Millerstown  would  have  said,  and  a 
dozen  or  so  plain  pine  chairs.  The  law  was  administered 
with  scant  ceremony  in  Millerstown. 

The  squire  sat  now  in  the  twilight  in  his  'back'  office, 
which  was  furnished  with  another  pine  table,  two  chairs, 
and  a  large  old-fashioned  iron  safe.  He  was  clearly  of  a 
geographical  turn  of  mind,  for  table,  safe,  and  floor  were 
littered  with  railroad  maps  and  folders.  The  squire  was 
about  sixty  years  old;  he  had  all  the  grave  beauty  which 
the  Gaumer  men  acquired.  Their  hair  did  not  thin  as  it 
turned  gray,  their  smooth-shaven  faces  did  not  wrinkle. 
They  all  looked  stern,  but  their  faces  brightened  readily 
at  sight  of  a  little  child  or  an  old  friend,  or  with  amusement 
over  some  untold  thought. 

The  squire's  face  glowed.  He  was  going  —  his  age,  his 
inexperience,  the  certain  disapproval  of  Millerstown  not 
withstanding  —  he  was  going  round  the  world!  He  would 
start  in  a  month,  and  thus  far  he  had  told  no  one  but  Edwin 
Seem,  an  adventurous  young  Millerstonian  who  was  to 
leave  that  night  for  a  ranch  in  Kansas,  and  whom  the 
squire  was  to  visit  on  his  own  journey.  For  thirty  years  he 
had  kept  Millerstown  straight;  there  was  no  possible  case 
for  which  his  substitute  would  not  find  a  precedent.  For 
tunately  there  were  no  trusts  to  be  investigated  and  re 
proved,  and  no  vote-buyers  or  bribers  to  be  imprisoned  or 


340  THE  SQUIBE 

fined.  There  were  disputes  of  all  kinds,  dozens  of  them, 
There  was  one  waiting  for  the  squire  now  in  the  outer  office; 
he  shook  his  head  solemnly  at  thought  of  it,  as  he  gathered 
up  his  maps  and  thrust  them  back  into  the  safe,  that 
precious  old  safe  which  held  the  money  for  his  journey. 
He  had  been  thirty  years  gathering  the  money  together. 

The  law  might  be  administered  in  Millerstown  without 
formality,  but  it  was  not  administered  without  the  eager 
attention  of  the  citizens.  Every  one  in  the  village  was  on 
hand  when  simple-minded  Venus  Stuber  was  indicted  for 
stealing,  or  when  the  various  dramatic  scenes  of  the  Miller- 
Weitzel  feud  were  enacted.  This  evening's  case,  Sula  Myers 
vs.  Adam  Myers  for  non-support,  might  be  considered  part 
of  the  Miller- Weitzel  feud,  since  the  two  real  principals, 
Sula's  mother  and  Adam's  mother,  had  been  respectively 
Sally  Miller  and  Maria  Weitzel. 

The  air  was  sultry,  and  rain  threatened.  The  clouds 
seemed  to  rest  on  the  tops  of  the  maple  trees;  it  was  only 
because  the  Millerstonians  knew  the  rough  brick  pave 
ments  as  they  knew  the  palms  of  their  hands  that  there 
were  no  serious  falls  in  the  darkness.  They  laughed  as  they 
hurried  to  the  hearing:  it  was  seldom  that  a  dispute  prom 
ised  so  richly.  There  was  almost  no  one  in  the  village 
who  could  not  have  been  subpoenaed  as  a  witness,  so  thor 
ough  was  every  one's  knowledge  of  the  case. 

Already  the  real  principals  faced  each  other,  glaring, 
under  the  blinding  light  of  the  squire's  hanging  lamp.  It 
made  no  difference  that  Millerstown  listened  and  chuckled 
or  that  the  squire  had  taken  his  seat  behind  the  pine  desk. 

*  When  it  don't  give  any  religion,  it  don't  give  any  decent 
behaving.  But  God  trieth  the  hearts  of  the  righteous,'  said 
Mrs.  Myers  meaningly. 

She  was  a  large,  commanding  woman,  who  had  been 
converted  in  middle  life  to  the  fervent  sect  of  the  new  Men- 


THE  SQUIRE  341 

nonites,  and  young  Adam  had  been  brought  up  in  that 
persuasion.  Except  for  his  marriage,  young  Adam  had 
been  thus  far  his  mother's  creature,  body  and  soul. 

Sula's  mother,  Mrs.  Hill,  was  large  also.  She  took  off  her 
sunbonnet,  and  folded  her  arms  as  tightly  as  possible  across 
her  broad  bosom. 

'There  is  sometimes  too  much  religion/  she  said. 

'Not  in  your  family,  Sally,'  rejoined  Mrs.  Myers,  her 
glance  including  not  only  Mrs.  Hill  and  Sula,  but  all  their 
sympathizers,  and  even  Caleb  Stem m el,  who  was  supposed 
to  be  neutral. 

Caleb  Stemmel  belonged  in  the  same  generation  with  the 
squire;  his  interest  could  be  only  general.  Caleb  did  not  see 
Mrs.  Myers's  scornful  glance;  he  was  watching  pretty 
Sula,  who  sat  close  by  her  mother's  side, 

Sula  looked  at  nobody,  neither  at  her  angry  mother  be 
side  her,  nor  at  her  angry  mother-in-law  opposite,  nor  even 
at  Adam  her  husband,  sitting  close  by  his  mother.  She 
wore  her  best  clothes,  her  pretty  summer  hat,  the  white 
dress  in  which  she  had  been  married  a  year  before.  Even 
her  wedding  handkerchief  was  tucked  into  her  belt. 

Sula  had  been  strangely  excited  when  she  dressed  in  the 
bedroom  of  her  girlhood  for  the  hearing.  There  was  the 
prospect  of  getting  even  with  her  mother-in-law,  with 
whom  she  had  lived  for  a  year  and  whom  she  hated;  there 
was  the  prospect  of  seeing  Adam's  embarrassment;  there 
was  another  reason,  soothing  to  her  pride,  and  as  yet  al 
most  unacknowledged,  even  to  herself. 

Now,  however,  the  glow  had  begun  to  fade,  and  she  felt 
uncomfortable  and  distressed.  She  heard  only  dimly  Mrs. 
Myers's  attack  and  her  mother's  response.  Immediately 
Mrs.  Myers  told  Mrs.  Hill  to  be  quiet,  and  Mrs.  Hill  replied 
with  equal  elegance. 

'You  will  both  be  quiet,'  said  the  squire  sternly.    'The 


342  THE  SQUIRE 

court  will  come  to  order.  Now,  Sula,  you  are  the  one  that 
complains;  you  will  tell  us  what  you  want/ 

Sula  did  not  answer;  she  was  tugging  at  her  handkerchief. 
The  handkerchief  had  been  pinned  fast,  its  loosening  took 
time. 

'It  was  this  way/  began  Mrs.  Myers  and  Mrs.  Hill,  to 
gether. 

The  squire  lifted  his  hand.  'We  will  wait  for  Sula/ 
He  looked  sternly  at  Mrs.  Hill.  'No  whispering,  Sally!' 

Sula's  complaint  came  out  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

'He  won't  support  me.  For  three  months  already  I 
did  n't  have  a  cent/ 

'All  this  time  I  supported  her/  said  her  mother. 

'  She  had  a  good  home  and  would  n't  stay  in  it/  said  Mrs. 
Myers. 

The  squire  commanded  silence  again. 

'Sula,  you  were  willing  to  live  with  Adam's  mother  when 
you  were  married.  Why  are  n't  you  now? ' 

'  She  —  she  would  n't  give  me  no  peace.  She  would  n't 
let  him  take  me  for  a  wedding-trip,  not  even  to  the  Fair/ 
She  repeated  it  as  though  it  were  the  worst  of  all  her  griev 
ances:  'Not  even  a  wedding-trip  to  the  Fair  would  he  dare 
to  take/ 

Mrs.  Hill  burst  forth  again.  She  would  have  spoken  if 
decapitation  had  followed. 

'He  gave  all  his  money  to  his  mom/ 

'He  is  yet  under  age,'  said  Mrs.  Myers. 

Again  Mrs.  Hill  burst  forth:  — 

'She  wanted  that  Sula  should  convert  herself  to  the 
Mennonites/ 

'I  wanted  to  save  her  soul/  declared  Mrs.  Myers. 

'  You  need  n't  to  worry  yourself  about  her  soul/  answered 
Mrs.  Hill.  'When  you  behave  as  well  as  Sula  when  you  're 
young,  you  need  n't  to  worry  yourself  about  other  people's 
souls  when  you  get  old/ 


THE  SQUIRE  343 

Mrs.  Myers's  youth  had  not  been  as  strait-laced  as  her 
middle  age;  there  was  a  depth  of  reminiscent  innuendo  in 
Mrs.  Hill's  remark.  Millerstown  laughed.  It  was  one  of 
the  delights  of  these  hearings  that  no  allusion  failed  to  be 
appreciated. 

*  Besides,  I  did  give  her  money/  Mrs.  Myers  hastened  to 
say. 

'Yes;  five  cents  once  in  a  while,  and  I  had  to  ask  for  it 
every  time,'  said  Sula.  'I  might  as  well  stayed  at  home 
with  my  mom  as  get  married  like  that.'  Sula's  eyes  wan 
dered  about  the  room,  and  suddenly  her  face  brightened. 
Her  voice  hardened  as  though  some  one  had  waved  her  an 
encouraging  sign.  'I  want  him  to  support  me  right.  I 
must  have  four  dollars  a  week.  I  can't  live  off  my  mom.' 

The  squire  turned  for  the  first  time  to  the  defendant. 

*  Well,  Adam,  what  have  you  to  say? ' 

Adam  had  not  glanced  toward  his  wife.  He  sat  with  bent 
head,  staring  at  the  floor,  his  face  crimson.  He  was  a  slen 
der  fellow,  he  looked  even  younger  than  his  nineteen  years. 

'I  did  my  best,'  he  said  miserably. 

'Can't  you  make  a  home  for  her  alone,  Adam? ' 

'No.' 

'How  much  do  you  earn?' 

'About  seven  dollars  a  week.   Sometimes  ten.' 

'Other  people  in  Millerstown  live  on  that.' 

'But  I  have  nothing  to  start,  no  furniture  or  anything.' 

'  Your  mother  will  surely  give  you  something,  and  Sula's 
mother.'  The  squire  looked  commandingly  at  Mrs.  Myers 
and  Mrs.  Hill.  '  It  is  better  for  young  ones  to  begin  alone.' 

'I  have  nothing  to  spare,'  said  Mrs.  Myers  stiffly. 

'I  wouldn't  take  any  of  your  things,'  blazed  Sula.  'I 
would  n't  use  any  of  your  things,  or  have  any  of  your 
things.' 

'You  knew  how  much  he  had  when  you  married  him,' 


344  THE  SQUIRE 

said  Mrs.  Myers  calmly.  'You  needn't  have  run  after 
him.' 

'Run  after  him ! '  cried  Sula. 

It  was  the  climax  of  sordid  insult.  They  had  been  two 
irresponsible  children  mating  as  birds  mate,  with  no  thought 
for  the  future.  It  was  not  true  that  she  had  run  after  him. 
She  burst  into  loud  crying. 

'  If  you  and  your  son  begged  me  on  your  knees  to  come 
back,  I  would  n't.' 

'Run  after  him ! '  echoed  Sula's  mother.  ' I  had  almost  to 
take  the  broom  to  him  at  ten  o'clock  to  get  him  to  go 
home ! ' 

Adam  looked  up  quickly.  For  the  moment  he  was  a  man. 
He  spoke  as  hotly  as  his  mother;  his  warmth  startled  even 
his  pretty  wife. 

'It  is  n't  true;  she  —  never  ran  after  me.' 

He  looked  down  again;  he  could  not  quarrel,  he  had 
heard  nothing  but  quarreling  for  months.  It  made  no  dif 
ference  to  him  what  happened.  A  plan  was  slowly  forming 
in  his  mind.  Edwin  Seem  was  going  West;  he  would  go  too, 
away  from  mother  and  wife  alike. 

'  She  can  come  and  live  in  the  home  I  can  give  her  or  she 
can  stay  away,'  he  said  sullenly,  knowing  that  Sula  would 
never  enter  his  mother's  house. 

The  squire  turned  to  Sula  once  more.  He  had  been 
staring  at  the  back  of  the  room,  where  Cabel  Stemmel's 
keen,  selfish  face  moved  now  into  the  light,  now  back  into 
the  shadow.  On  it  was  a  strange  expression,  a  hungry 
gleam  of  the  eyes,  a  tightening  of  the  lips,  an  eager  watching 
of  the  girlish  figure  in  the  white  dress.  The  squire  knew  all 
the  gossip  of  Millerstown,  and  he  knew  many  things  which 
Millerstown  did  not  know.  He  had  known  Caleb  Stemmel 
for  fifty  years.  But  it  was  incredible  that  Caleb  Stemmel 
with  all  his  wickedness  should  have  any  hand  in  this. 


THE  SQUIRE  345 

The  squire  bent  forward. 

'Sula,  look  at  me.  You  are  Adam's  wife.  You  must  live 
with  him.  Won't  you  go  back?' 

Sula  looked  about  the  room  once  more.  Sula  would  do 
nothing  wrong  —  yet.  It  was  with  Caleb  Stemmel  that  her 
mother  advised,  it  was  Caleb  Stemmel  who  came  evening 
after  evening  to  sit  on  the  porch.  Caleb  Stemmel  was  a 
rich  man  even  if  he  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  and  it 
was  many  months  since  any  one  else  had  told  Sula  that 
her  hat  was  pretty  or  her  dress  becoming. 

Now,  with  Caleb's  eyes  upon  her,  she  said  the  little 
speech  which  had  been  taught  her,  the  speech  which  set 
Millerstown  gasping,  and  sent  the  squire  leaping  to  his 
feet,  furious  anger  on  his  face.  Neither  Millerstown  nor 
the  squire,  English  as  they  had  become,  was  yet  entirely 
of  the  world. 

*  I  will  not  go  back,'  said  pretty  Sula  lightly.  *  If  he  wants 
to  apply  for  a  divorce,  he  can.' 

'Sula!'  cried  the  squire. 

He  looked  about  once  more.  On  the  faces  of  Sula's 
mother  and  Caleb  Stemmel  was  complacency,  on  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Myers  astonished  approval,  on  the  faces  of  the 
citizens  of  Millerstown  —  except  the  very  oldest  —  there 
was  amazement,  but  no  dismay.  There  had  never  been  a 
divorce  in  Millerstown;  persons  quarreled,  sometimes  they 
separated,  sometimes  they  lived  in  the  same  house  without 
speaking  to  each  other  for  months  and  years,  but  they  were 
not  divorced.  Was  this  the  beginning  of  a  new  order? 

If  there  were  to  be  a  new  order,  it  would  not  come  during 
the  two  months  before  the  squire  started  on  his  long  jour 
ney!  He  shook  his  fist,  his  eyes  blazing. 

*  There  is  to  be  no  such  threatening  in  this  court,'  he 
cried;  'and  no  talking  about  divorce  while  I  am  here.  Sula! 
Maria!   Sally!   Are  you  out  of  your  heads?' 


346  THE  SQUIRE 

*  There  are  higher  courts,'  said  Mrs.  Hill. 

Millerstown  gasped  visibly  at  her  defiance.  To  its  fur 
ther  amazement,  the  squire  made  no  direct  reply.  Instead 
he  went  toward  the  door  of  the  back  office. 

'Adam,'  he  commanded,  'come  here.' 

Adam  rose  without  a  word,  to  obey.  He  had  some  respect 
for  the  majesty  of  the  law. 

'Sula,  you  come,  too.' 

For  an  instant  Sula  held  back. 

'Don't  you  do  it,  Sula,'  said  her  mother. 

'Sula!'  said  the  squire;  and  Sula,  too,  rose. 

'Don't  you  give  up,'  commanded  her  mother.  Then  she 
got  to  her  feet.  '  I  'm  going  in  there,  too.' 

Again  the  squire  did  not  answer.  He  presented  instead 
the  effectual  response  of  a  closed  and  locked  door. 

The  back  office  was  as  dark  as  a  pocket.  The  squire  took 
a  match  from  the  safe,  and  lit  the  lamp.  Behind  them  the 
voices  of  Mrs.  Myers  and  Mrs.  Hill  answered  each  other 
with  antiphonal  regularity.  Adam  stood  by  the  window; 
Sula  advanced  no  farther  than  the  door.  The  squire  spoke 
sharply. 

'Adam!' 

Adam  turned  from  the  window. 

'Sula!' 

Sula  looked  up.  She  had  always  held  the  squire  in  awe; 
now,  without  the  support  of  her  mother's  elbow  and  Caleb 
Stemmel's  eyes,  she  was  badly  frightened.  Moreover,  it 
seemed  to  her  suddenly  that  the  thing  she  had  said  was 
monstrous.  The  squire  frightened  her  no  further.  He  was 
now  gentleness  itself. 

'Sula,'  he  said,  'you  did  n't  mean  what  you  said  in  there, 
did  you?' 

Sula  burst  into  tears,  not  of  anger  but  of  wretchedness. 

'You'd  say  anything,  too,  if  you  had  to  stand  the  things 
I  did/ 


THE  SQUIRE  347 

'Sit  down,  both  of  you,'  commanded  the  squire.  'Now, 
Adam,  what  are  you  going  to  do?' 

Adam  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  other  room  had  been 
a  torture-chamber.  'I  don't  know.'  Then,  at  the  squire's 
next  question,  he  lifted  his  head  suddenly.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  squire  had  read  his  soul. 

'When  is  Edwin  Seem  going  West?' 

'To-night.' 

'How  would  you  like  to  go  with  him?' 

'He  wanted  me  to.  He  could  get  me  a  place  with  good 
wages.  But  I  could  n't  save  even  the  fare  in  half  a  year.' 

'Suppose,'  —  the  squire  hesitated,  then  stopped,  then 
went  on  again,  —  'suppose  I  should  give  you  the  money?' 

'  Give  me  the  money ! ' 

'Yes,  lend  it  to  you?' 

A  red  glow  came  into  Adam's  face.  '  I  would  go  to-night.' 

'And  Sula?'  said  the  squire. 

'I  would — •'  The  boy  was  young,  too  young  to  have 
learned  despair  from  only  one  bitter  experience.  Besides, 
he  had  not  seen  Caleb  Stemmel's  eyes.  'I  would  send  for 
her  when  I  could.' 

The  squire  made  a  rapid  reckoning.  He  did  not  dare  to 
send  the  boy  away  with  less  than  a  hundred  dollars,  and  it 
would  take  a  long  while  to  replace  it.  He  could  not,  could 
not  send  Sula,  too,  no  matter  how  much  he  hated  divorce, 
no  matter  how  much  he  feared  Caleb  Stemmel's  influence 
over  her,  no  matter  how  much  he  loved  Millerstown  and 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  it.  If  he  sent  Sula,  it 
would  mean  that  he  might  never  start  on  his  own  journey. 
He  looked  down  at  her,  as  she  sat  drooping  in  her  chair. 

'What  do  you  say,  Sula?' 

Sula  looked  up  at  him.  It  might  have  been  the  thought 
of  parting  which  terrified  her,  or  the  recollection  of  Caleb 
Stemmel. 


348  THE  SQUIRE 

'Oh,  I  would  try/  she  said  faintly;  'I  would  try  to  do 
what  is  right.  But  they  are  after  me  all  the  time  —  and  — 
and  — '  Her  voice  failed,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

The  squire  swung  open  the  door  of  the  old  safe. 

'You  have  ten  minutes  to  catch  the  train/  he  said  gruffly. 
'You  must  hurry/ 

Adam  laid  a  shaking  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  been  near  her  for  weeks. 

'Sula/  he  began  wretchedly. 

The  squire  straightened  up.  He  had  pulled  out  from  the 
safe  a  roll  of  bills.  With  it  came  a  mass  of  brightly  colored 
pamphlets  which  drifted  about  on  the  floor. 

'Here/  he  said,  'I  mean  both  of  you,  of  course/ 

'I  am  to  go,  too?'  cried  Sula. 

'Of  course/  said  the  squire.  'Edwin  will  look  after  you.' 

'In  this  dress?'  said  Sula. 

'Yes,  now  run/ 

For  at  least  ten  minutes  more  the  eager  company  in  the 
next  room  heard  the  squire's  voice  go  on  angrily.  Each 
mother  was  complacently  certain  that  he  was  having  no 
effect  on  her  child. 

'He  is  telling  her  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself/ 
said  Mrs.  Myers. 

'He  is  telling  him  he  is  such  a  mother-baby/  responded 
Mrs.  Hill.  'She  will  not  go  back  to  him  while  the  world 
stands/ 

'The  righteous  shall  be  justified,  and  the  wicked  shall  be 
condemned/  said  Mrs.  Myers. 

Suddenly  the  squire's  monologue  ended  with  a  louder 
burst  of  oratory.  The  silence  which  followed  frightened 
Mrs.  Hill. 

'Let  me  in!'  she  demanded,  rapping  on  the  door. 

'This  court  shall  be  public,  not  private/  cried  Mrs. 
Myers. 


THE   SQUIRE  349 

She  thrust  Mrs.  Hill  aside  and  knocked  more  loudly,  at 
which  imperative  summons  the  squire  appeared.  He  stood 
for  an  instant  with  his  back  to  the  door,  the  bright  light 
shining  on  his  handsome  face.  Seeing  him  appear  alone, 
the  two  women  stood  still  and  stared. 

*  Where  is  he?'  asked  Mrs.  Myers. 

*  Where  is  she?'  demanded  Mrs.  Hill. 
The  squire's  voice  shook. 

*  There  is  to  be  no  divorcing  in  Millerstown  yet  awhile,' 
he  announced. 

*  Where  is  he?'  cried  Mrs.  Myers. 
'Where  is  she?'  shrieked  Mrs.  Hill. 

The  squire  smiled.  The  parting  blast  of  the  train  whistle, 
screaming  as  if  in  triumph,  echoed  across  the  little  town. 
They  had  had  abundance  of  time  to  get  aboard. 

'He  is  with  her,  where  he  should  be,'  he  answered  Mrs. 
Myers,  'and  she  is  with  him,  where  she  should  be,'  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Hill,  'and  both  are  together.'  This  time  it  seemed 
that  he  was  addressing  all  of  Millerstown.  In  reality  he  was 
looking  straight  at  Caleb  Stemmel. 

'You  m-m-mea*-  that — '  stammered  Mrs.  Myers. 

'  What  do  you  mean? '  demanded  Mrs.  Hill. 

'I  mean,'  — •  and  now  the  squire  was  grinning  broadly,  — 
'I  mean  they  are  taking  a  wedding-trip.' 


GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE 

BY    CHARLES   HASKINS   TOWNSEND 

THIS  is  a  tale  of  the  warm  sea- tides  that  daily  and  nightly 
flood  the  channels  among  the  Bermuda  Islands.  I  had  al 
most  written  it  'The  Scuttle  and  Gregory/  but  it  was  Greg 
ory  who  carried  on  the  campaign  aggressively  and  finally 
triumphed  with  the  trap-net,  so  that  the  sea-monster  was 
dragged  away  into  captivity. 

At  our  first  meeting,  when  I  described  the  creature  whose 
subjection  I  wished  to  accomplish,  Gregory  said,  'That's 
the  scuttle.'  I  suggested  the  word  cuttle,  as,  perhaps,  more 
appropriate,  but  it  was  not  appreciated.  The  scuttle  by 
any  other  name  could  never  be  satisfactory  to  him.  Quib 
bling  over  a  mere  title  seemed  unnecessary,  so  I  made  an 
effort  to  get  down  to  essentials  and  adopted  Gregory's 
word.  As  a  result  of  our  conference,  Gregory  took  certain 
implements  of  capture  and  sailed  out  of  the  bay;  only  to 
return,  after  a  considerable  absence,  with  an  empty  boat. 

He  had,  however,  matured  certain  plans  which  it  seemed 
reasonable  to  follow  out.  It  appeared  that  a  combination 
of  forces  was  desirable,  so  I  contracted  for  the  services  of 
both  Gregory  and  his  boat,  and  we  set  about  the  circum 
vention  of  the  scuttle  by  fair  measure  or  foul. 

As  we  sailed  away  in  the  light  morning  breeze,  Gregory 
expatiated  upon  the  subtlety  of  the  scuttle  and  the  labors 
of  the  black  toilers  of  the  sea,  who  had  sought  to  capture 
him. 

'How  big  is  he?'  I  inquired. 

'Not  too  big,  sir,'  said  Gregory,  holding  up  a  short  oar 
by  way  of  suggesting  dimensions. 


GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE      351 

I  was  interested,  for  I  had  read,  in  a  book  by  one  Hugo, 
how  a  man  had  once  entered  a  sea-cave,  and  had  had  a 
fearful  struggle  with  the  creature.  Respecting  the  truth  of 
this,  however,  there  is  reasonable  doubt,  although  I  know 
of  the  capture  of  an  octopus  of  the  seas  about  Vancouver 
Island,  which  actually  measured  several  oars'  lengths 
across  its  outspread  arms.  But  all  this  is  not  telling  the 
story  of  Gregory's  search. 

The  scuttle  eluded  us  for  many  days,  artfully  removing 
choice  foods  from  the  snares  we  set  for  him;  but  we  some 
times  caught  faint  glimpses  of  him  down  under  the  over 
hanging  borders  of  coral  reefs,  where  he  sat  in  shadowy 
caverns,  thrusting  forth  his  horrifying  arms  to  seize  the 
unwary  sea-people. 

While  Gregory  with  great  caution  moved  the  boat  close 
by  the  rocks,  I  peered  constantly  through  the  water-glass 
into  the  grayish  depths  where  the  fierce- jawed  moray  has 
his  hunting-grounds,  and  where  the  sharp-stinging  medusa 
drifts  along,  moving  out  of  the  way  of  no  creature  whatso 
ever.  It  was  an  enchanted  world  that  lay  beneath  us,  and 
I  saw  many  strange  things  which  cannot  be  described  here. 

But  I  must  explain  about  the  water-glass,  an  article 
with  which  all  fishermen  of  the  Bermudas  are  familiar. 
Like  many  another  indispensable  thing,  it  is  of  simple  con 
struction,  being  nothing  more  than  a  wooden  bucket  with 
a  bottom  of  glass.  By  placing  it  on  the  surface  of  the  water 
and  inserting  one's  face  in  the  open  top,  it  is  possible  to  see 
distinctly  whatever  may  be  beneath. 

We  worked  our  way  at  times  into  small  bays  where  green 
sea-lettuce  lay  in  the  shallow  water  in  masses.  These  we 
overturned  with  our  oar  and  boat-hook,  hoping  to  come 
upon  the  wily  object  of  our  pursuit. 

The  lair  of  the  scuttle,  according  to  Gregory,  may  be 
discovered  by  certain  unmistakable  signs.  It  is  the  accus- 


352  GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE 

tomed  way  of  the  creature  to  drag  his  prey  to  his  hiding- 
place,  there  to  devour  it  at  leisure.  Crafty  in  the  capture 
of  his  victims,  and  wily  in  the  concealment  of  himself  from 
observation,  he  makes  no  attempt  to  hide  the  debris  of  his 
feasts.  He  thrusts  his  garbage  forth  from  his  stronghold, 
unconcerned  as  to  where  it  fall,  provided  the  entrance  be 
clear  for  his  own  movements.  If  he  has  feasted  high  on 
lobster  or  oyster,  crab  or  clam,  a  mountain  of  shells  pro 
claims  his  lair.  The  heap  may  grow  until  it  would  fill  a 
basket  as  large  as  a  man  could  lift. 

Knowing  his  weakness  for  these  dainties,  Gregory  gath 
ered  a  supply,  hoping  to  lure  the  scuttle  into  his  power. 
He  did,  in  fact,  nearly  succeed  on  one  occasion  by  lowering 
a  tempting  morsel  near  where  the  creature  lay  concealed. 
A  long  arm  snatched  and  held  the  bait  until  the  sharp, 
hidden  hook  tore  loose,  and  Gregory  almost  fell  over  as  he 
jerked  the  stout  line. 

This  method  might  have  succeeded  if  I  had  not  been 
anxious  to  take  my  departure  from  the  islands  and  so  urged 
haste.  Whereupon  Gregory,  who  was  big  and  powerful 
and  did  not  fear  a  personal  encounter  with  the  scuttle,  be 
came  more  aggressive. 

On  the  following  day,  when  the  tide  was  motionless  and 
the  water  glassy,  he  saw  the  scuttle  disappear  under  a  nar 
row  ledge  a  couple  of  fathoms  down  in  the  clear,  greenish 
channel.  He  was  overboard  in  an  instant,  and  with  a  few 
quick  strokes  reached  the  bottom.  Looking  down  through 
the  water-glass  I  could  see  the  whitish  soles  of  his  bare  feet 
as  he  made  tremendous  upward  thrusts  with  his  legs. 

The  scuttle  was  disturbed  by  the  suddenness  of  the  at 
tack,  and  as  he  had  not  selected  a  favorable  place  for  con 
cealment,  decided  to  make  off,  and  lost  no  time  in  doing  so. 
He  may  have  caught  sight  of  the  whites  of  Gregory's  deter 
mined  eyes.  He  was  barely  quicker,  however,  than  the 


GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE       353 

quick  arm  of  the  man,  and  might  have  been  seized  had  he 
not  played  a  scurvy  trick:  the  water  suddenly  turned  black 
—  black  as  Gregory's  own  face. 

It  appears  that  the  creature  always  bears  a  sac  of  inky 
fluid  ready  in  an.  instant  to  darken  the  water  all  about  him, 
and  can  dart  away  under  an  impenetrable  cloud  of  his  own 
conjuring.  This  characteristic,  which  I  had  hitherto  read 
of,  I  now  saw  verified.  By  magic  the  scuttle  had  disap 
peared,  and  a  moment  later  there  was  a  porpoise-like  snort 
as  Gregory's  head  popped  above  the  surface. 

Later,  we  had  proof  also  of  the  scuttle's  mysterious  power 
of  suddenly  changing  his  color.  Like  the  chameleon,  he 
may  appear  conspicuously  dark  at  one  moment  and  incon 
spicuously  pale  at  another,  against  the  grayish,  ragged  wall 
of  the  coral  reef.  This  I  made  sure  of  as  our  boat  came  close 
to  another  of  his  hiding-places.  Although  he  was  in  full 
sight,  it  took  me  some  minutes  to  realize  that  the  ghostly 
outlines  pointed  out  to  me  were  not  a  part  of  the  gray  back 
ground  of  jagged  rock.  He  can,  moreover,  instantly  turn 
brown  or  become  spotted,  as  I  later  saw  with  my  own  eyes 
after  we  had  got  him  into  our  power. 

It  was  clear  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  in 
that  locality;  so  Gregory  clambered  aboard  and  we  held 
counsel  together  as  the  boat  drifted  broadside  up  the  chan 
nel  with  the  tide;  and  the  earnestness  of  the  black  man 
made  so  profound  an  impression  on  me  that  when  we  parted 
in  the  evening  I  was  not  without  hope  that  my  mission 
would  eventually  be  crowned  with  success. 

But  the  next  day  we  were  again  disappointed.  Gregory 
dived  and  had  the  scuttle  in  his  arms  almost  before  I  could 
brush  from  my  eyes  the  salt  water  his  splash  threw  over 
me.  As  he  came  up  alongside,  however,  trouble  began,  for 
the  scuttle  got  a  grip  on  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  his 
many  sucker-covered  arms,  and,  while  Gregory  was  get- 

24 


354       GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE 

ting  his  breath,  his  hold  slipped,  and  again  the  creature 
was  off.  Just  how  he  managed  to  disappear  so  suddenly 
remains  a  mystery;  neither  Gregory,  who  went  under  again, 
nor  I,  who  promptly  reached  for  the  water-glass,  got  the 
faintest  glimpse  of  him.  Doubtless  he  shot  away  body  fore 
most,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind,  every  one  of  his  eight 
arms  contributing  to  the  haste  of  his  departure. 

Failing  in  all  these  manoeuvres,  I  began  to  scout  among 
lonely  pools  under  the  cliffs,  where,  if  cautious,  one  may 
see  strange  sea-folk  when  the  tide  is  out.  Gregory,  left 
alone  with  his  stratagems,  disappeared  for  a  few  days. 
The  last  glimpse  I  had  of  him  was  of  a  very  black  man  with 
a  very  earnest  face,  loading  a  huge  wicker  contrivance  into 
a  boat.  I  had  considerable  faith  in  his  resourcefulness,  for 
he  knew  the  reefs  and  caves  as  well  as  did  the  scuttle 
himself. 

But  my  solitary  patrol  of  the  rocky  shore  proved  fruit 
less,  and  I  was  glad,  two  days  later,  to  find  Gregory  sitting 
on  a  stone  wall  down  by  the  little  dock,  swinging  his  bare 
feet  and  enjoying  the  hot  sunshine,  but  not  much  inclined 
to  talk.  He  told  me  that  he  had  gone  to  a  distant  island 
village  in  search  of  a  large  trap-device  used  for  catching 
fish.  This,  with  the  help  of  another  fisherman,  he  had  low 
ered  into  a  deep  cleft  among  the  reefs  two  or  three  miles  to 
the  westward.  I  was  to  go  with  him  the  next  day  to  see  if 
by  any  possibility  the  scuttle  had  been  deluded  into  enter 
ing  it,  for  it  was  baited  with  something  which  the  always 
hungry  monster  was  pretty  sure  to  investigate. 

We  were  off  early  in  the  morning,  but  made  slow  prog 
ress,  as  there  was  little  wind.  It  was  fully  three  hours  be 
fore  we  arrived  at  the  sunken  trap,  which  Gregory  located 
by  the  bearings  of  certain  distant  cliffs,  for  there  were  few 
portions  of  the  reef  showing  at  high  tide.  The  breeze  being 
light,  the  stone  killick  with  line  attached  was  thrown  over- 


GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE  355 

board  without  lowering  the  sail.  Through  the  water-glass 
we  made  out  the  framework  of  the  big  trap  on  the  bottom. 
I  let  out  more  anchor-line,  the  sloop  drifting  astern  until 
we  were  nearly  over  the  trap,  when  Gregory  yelled  that 
the  scuttle  was  ours. 

He  let  down  a  grapple,  and  after  some  heaving  and  haul 
ing  we  dragged  the  cumbersome  contrivance  on  board.  The 
hatch  over  the  water-filled  well  of  the  sloop  was  shoved 
back  to  make  ready  for  the  entrance  of  our  captive.  I  kept 
a  firm  grip  on  the  trap  while  Gregory,  all  the  while  shouting 
instructions  to  me  and  abuse  at  the  scuttle,  undid  the  fas 
tenings  at  one  corner.  It  took  a  deal  of  punching  with  an 
oar  to  dislodge  the  creature,  whose  eight  arms  were  reach 
ing  in  all  directions.  When  one  of  them  thrust  through  an 
opening  and  took  a  turn  around  Gregory's  bare  arm,  the 
whites  of  the  man's  eyes  were  even  more  conspicuous  than 
his  white  teeth.  There  was  a  ripping  sound  as  he  tore  the 
arm  away  from  that  sucker-covered  arm  of  the  scuttle,  but 
no  harm  was  done  to  either  combatant. 

What  with  the  lurching  of  the  sloop,  the  rocking  of  the 
big  unsteady  trap,  the  resistance  of  our  captive,  and  Greg 
ory's  shouting,  there  was  considerable  turmoil  for  so  lim 
ited  an  area  as  that  we  occupied  on  our  small  craft.  The 
scuttle  was  gradually  crowded  down,  and  was  presently 
forced  to  take  refuge  in  the  well  to  escape  the  black  man's 
oar.  In  the  bottom  of  the  trap  lay  the  empty  shell  of  the 
great  crayfish  which  had  tempted  the  creature  to  his  un 
doing.  With  the  hatch  back  in  place,  and  the  trap  lashed 
against  the  windward  side  of  the  mast,  our  work  was  done. 

After  a  pull  on  the  sheet,  I  took  the  tiller  and  my  com 
panion  rested  from  his  labors;  but  his  tongue  was  loosened, 
and  by  the  time  we  came  to  anchor  in  the  twilight,  he  had 
said  more  about  the  scuttle  than  I  have  been  able  to  recall, 
and  a  good  deal  that  I  am  not  hopeful  of  being  able  to 


356       GREGORY  AND  THE  SCUTTLE 

verify.  Nevertheless,  he  had  earned  his  reward,  and  as  the 
lights  were  beginning  to  glimmer  around  the  harbor,  he 
went  to  his  home  with  a  comfortable  jingle  of  coins  in  his 
pocket. 

When  the  steamer  sailed  away  to  the  north,  the  scuttle 
was  a  captive  on  board,  staring  with  unwinking  eyes  at 
the  passengers  who  came  to  gaze  at  him.  He  escaped  from 
confinement  twice  during  the  voyage,  and  we  had  no  small 
difficulty  in  getting  him  properly  secured.  We  learned  that 
a  large  prisoner,  if  he  is  persistent  enough,  may  take 
flight  through  a  comparatively  small  hole,  and  we  were 
therefore  unremitting  in  our  watchfulness  until  the  captive 
was  landed  securely  within  the  walls  of  the  ancient  fortress 
at  the  Battery. 

And  that  is  how  the  octopus  came  to  the  Aquarium. 


IN  NOVEMBER 

BY   EDITH    WYATT 

THEY  had  pitched  camp  in  the  shelter  of  a  great  buff- 
colored  dune,  with  two  up-turned  canoes,  and  a  small  tent 
with  a  flap  staked  over  it. 

Lake  Michigan,  all  green  and  mist-blown,  banded  the 
whole  north  horizon,  to  break  along  the  curving  beach  in 
little  hoary  crowns  of  foam  and  bubbles.  Southwest, 
southeast,  and  south,  the  broad,  full  contours  of  the  dunes 
purled  far  away,  beneath  the  gray  and  purple  sky  of  the 
late  autumn.  They  were  grown  with  red-oak  and  yellow 
poplar-brush  toward  the  west.  Toward  the  southeast  and 
south  their  long  pure  curves,  low-swooping  like  a  swallow's 
flight,  ran  nude  and  pale,  in  shadows  exquisitely  changing 
in  the  rising  afternoon. 

Beside  a  smoky  fire,  between  the  tent  and  the  lake,  a  sun 
burned  young  woman  with  roughly  blown  hair,  in  corduroy 
skirt  and  a  boy's  overcoat,  dark  and  shabby,  now  hid  her 
eyes  from  the  smoke,  in  the  crook  of  her  arm,  and  now  rub 
bed  vaseline  on  a  stiff  shoe  in  her  lap. 

These  occupations  so  closely  engaged  her  attention  that 
she  did  not  at  first  observe,  across  the  beach,  the  approach 
of  a  little  sandy  woman  between  fifty  and  sixty,  in  a  short 
walking-skirt  and  a  felt  walking-hat  tied  down  with  a  veil. 
Her  shoes  looked  damp.  She  glanced  rather  shyly ,, but  with 
a  sort  of  liking  and  friendliness,  at  the  tent  and  the  fire. 

'Come  and  dry  your  shoes/  said  the  girl  hospitably,  lift 
ing  her  eyes.  She  was  a  rather  pretty  blonde  girl,  with  a 
good-humored,  quiet  expression. 

'Are  you  folks  camping  out  here?'  said  the  visitor,  still 


358  IN  NOVEMBER 

looking  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  and  pleasure  at  the  camp. 
*  You 're  from  Chicago,  relatives  to  Mrs.  Horick  in  South 
Laketown,  ain't  you?  So  I  heard.  I  've  sewed  some  for  her. 
Oh,  I  just  wisht  I  was  you.  Few  cares  enough  for  camping 
to  do  it  this  time  of  year.  Your  folks  come  here  to  fish? ' 

'No,'  said  the  girl  quietly.  'One  of  my  cousins  was  taken 
sick  this  fall,  and  told  to  live  outdoors.  So  he  decided  to 
come  out  here  and  camp  with  his  wife  and  little  boy  and 
me.  For  a  while.' 

'You  have  a  nice  place  for  it.' 

'My  cousins  have  gone  to  the  station  on  some  errands,' 
said  the  girl  reflectively,  polishing  her  shoe.  She  could  not 
very  well  say  to  her  relative's  dressmaker,  that  the  camp 
had  feared  the  visit  of  Mrs.  Horick  on  that  very  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Horick  was  a  pretty,  competent,  hard-edged  young 
woman,  who  enjoyed  such  things  in  life  as  tight  face-veils, 
high  traps,  and  docked  horses.  The  adult  campers  had 
drawn  lots  to  select  her  victim  for  the  afternoon.  The  lot 
had  fallen  to  Jim  Paine.  But  Jim  took  so  unbridled  a  pleas 
ure  in  displeasing  Mrs.  Horick  that  it  was  decided  such  a 
fate  would  be  too  cruel  to  her.  The  lots  were  drawn  again. 
This  time  the  lot  fell  to  Alice  Paine.  But  Mrs.  Horick  de 
pressed  Alice,  sometimes  for  several  hours  after  her  depart 
ure.  The  lots  were  drawn  again.  This  time  the  lot  fell  to 
Elsie  Norris.  With  whoops,  it  was  determined  Elsie  must 
remain.  She  would  not  care  a  fig  what  Mrs.  Horick  said  or 
thought,  would  be  entirely  amiable  with  her,  and,  besides, 
had  no  shoes  to  walk  to  the  station  in.  One  pair  was  wet. 
The  other  was  too  stiff  to  put  on.  After  dressing  Elsie  in 
the  most  handsome  garments  the  camp  afforded,  the  others 
had  left  her,  early  in  the  afternoon,  with  Shep,  Rabbie's 
collie,  wandering  around  within  call,  and  occasionally  bark 
ing  at  imaginary  wolves  in  the  brush. 

'Perhaps  you  met  my  cousins  on  your  way,'  said  Elsie. 


IN  NOVEMBER  359 

'No.  I  didn't  come  from  that  direction.  I  came  from 
Gary.  It  ain't  much  of  a  place  to  live.  But  I  got  a  real 
good  airy  room,  with  a  back-porch  of  my  own,  in  a  carpen 
ter's  family  there.  Miss  Brackett's  my  name.  I  'm  about 
the  only  dressmaker  in  the  place,  so 's  I  get  plenty  of  cus 
tom,  more  'n  all  that  I  can  do;  and  well-paid,  too,  you  can 
say  in  a  way,'  she  added  with  a  sigh;  'and  in  a  way,  not; 
because  I  hate  sewing.  But  then  I  walk  a  good  deal  around 
here.  There 's  some  fine  walks  through  the  oaks  and  in  the 
dunes;  just  as  fine  as  any  one  could  wish,'  she  said  with  a 
look  of  content.  *  It  makes  me  just  about  homesick  to  see 
your  camp.  I  was  camping  myself  six  years  ago.' 

4  Were  you?  Here?' 

'No,'  said  Miss  Brackett,  with  a  little  hesitation.  In  re 
sponse  to  Elsie's  invitation,  she  had  seated  herself  on  a  log, 
near  the  fire.  There  was  evidently  something  very  stirring 
in  their  little  camp  to  her.  For  a  moment  she  even  looked 
as  if  she  were  going  to  cry.  'It  was  on  the  plains,'  she  said 
finally,  with  a  certain  pride.  'A  long  wagon-trip,  a  whole 
year  long.' 

'How  fine!' 

'Yes,'  said  Miss  Brackett,  looking  at  the  dunes  and  the 
surging  lake.  'It  was,  as  you  might  say,  a  great  experi 
ence.  You  hardly  would  believe  me,  but  before  that  time, 
why,  I  hardly  knew  there  was  such  a  place  as  outdoors;  not 
till  I  was  forty-six  years  old;  and  that's  a  fact.' 

Elsie  glanced  up  at  her  inquiringly.  She  had  heard  of 
persons  who  acquired  Spanish  at  ninety,  or  who  experi 
enced  a  passionate  personal  infatuation  for  the  first  time  at 
sixty,  but  never  of  an  adult  creature,  devoted  to  an  indoor 
existence,  who  suddenly  felt  in  middle  age  a  real  response 
to  the  great  inarticulate  voices  of  the  earth. 

'  Up  to  then,  I  lived  on  the  West  Side,  in  Chicago,  with 
my  married  sister.  My  father  left  the  place  to  her  and  to 


360  IN  NOVEMBER 

me.  Most  of  the  rest  of  the  property  went  to  my  young 
half-brother  Kip.  But  when  Nettie's  children  were  nearly 
grown,  it  seemed  as  though  there  was  n't  any  room  left  in 
the  house  for  me;  and  yet  they  needed  me,  you  see,  to  sew 
for  them,  right  straight  along.  I  used  to  sew,  sew,  sew  till 
midnight  and  past,  often,  tucking  on  the  girls'  summer 
dresses,  especially  that  last  spring  when  I  was  at  home;  and 
I  began  to  cough  then  and  get  so  dreadful  tired.  That  win 
ter  Nettie  thought  each  of  the  girls  ought  to  have  their  own 
room.  It  was  no  more  than  right,  either.  Nettie  and  me, 
we  each  had  our  own  room  when  we  was  young  girls.  So  I 
used  to  sleep  just  on  two  chairs  with  quilts  in  the  back  par 
lor,  and  could  n't  seem  to  rest  very  good,  and,  besides,  had 
to  get  up  and  get  dressed  and  the  room  fixed,  real  early,  so 
Will  could  come  there  and  read  his  morning  paper.  Well,  I 
used  to  keep  all  my  things  in  shoe-boxes,  up  in  the  attic,  so 
they  'd  be  out  of  the  way.  They  used  to  laugh,  and  laugh, 
about  those  boxes;  and  one  night  we  was  all  sitting  on  the 
steps,  and  they  were  laughing,  and  my  youngest  niece, 
Baby,  she  got  real  mad.  She  's  so  warm-hearted  and  she 
never  wanted  to  take  my  room,  and  only  did  because  it 
provoked  Nettie  so,  for  her  not  to.  Babe  turned  real  white, 
and  she  said  all  of  a  sudden,  "The  reason  why  Aunt  Min 
has  n't  anything  but  shoe-boxes  to  keep  her  things  in  is 
just  because  we  've  turned  her  out  of  everything,"  she  said. 
"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves."  And  she  jumped 
up  and  ran  into  the  house. 

'  That  night  my  brother  Kip  happened  to  be  there.  He  'd 
been  West  ever  since  he  was  fifteen.  He's  a  lot  younger 
than  Nettie  and  me  —  only  twenty-five,  then.  We  thought 
Kip  was  an  awful  wild,  queer  sort  of  fellow,  then;  we  did  n't 
know  him  at  all.  I  felt  just  like  the  rest.  He  'd  run  through 
all  that  was  left  him  long  ago;  and  he'd  married  an  actress 
and  was  separated  from  her.  He  was  a  sort  of  a  Socialist 


IN  NOVEMBER  361 

too,  and  even  had  tramped  some.  But  he  seemed  to  be  real 
kind  in  some  ways.  When  Babe  said  that,  he  looked  at  me 
quite  hard.  When  he  went  home  he  says  to  me*  "You  look 
sick,  Min,"  he  says,  and  he  took  hold  of  my  hand.  "  You  've 
got  fever.  Why  don't  you  see  a  doctor?" 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  what  got  into  me.  After  they  was  all 
gone  that  night,  I  just  broke  down,  and  cried  and  cried.  I 
did  feel  dreadful  sick  and  feverish,  and  I  had  n't  no  money 
of  my  own  to  see  a  doctor,  and  felt  just  all  gone  really.  I 
managed  to  get  up  and  fix  the  room  before  any  of  them 
come  down.  But  then  I  had  to  lie  on  the  sofa,  and  could  n't 
get  to  breakfast.  And  after  breakfast  —  would  you  believe 
it?  —  a  doctor  come.  Kip  sent  him,  himself.  But  he 
frightened  Nettie  to  death.  I  felt  dreadfully  sorry  for 
her/ 

'He  told  your  sister  how  ill  you  were,'  said  Elsie  gravely. 

'Oh,  yes.  But  it  wasn't  so  much  that,  as  she  was  so 
afraid  some  of  the  children  might  catch  my  trouble.  She 
was  all  right  though  as  soon  as  they  got  me  to  the  hospital, 
though  she  was  provoked  too,  because  it  took  so  much  of 
her  time  to  come  there  to  see  me.  She  come  twice  before  I 
went  away.  The  doctor  said  that  going  away  was  my  only 
chance.  For  all  that  I  was  up  and  around,  he  thought  I 
could  n't  live  a  year.' 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  moment,  looking  away  at  the 
dunes. 

'Then —  what  do  you  think  —  Kip  had  an  intimate 
friend,  quite  a  rich  young  man,  Will  Bronson,  who  was  sick 
the  same  way  I  was.  That's  how  Kip  come  to  notice  my 
sickness  so.  The  doctors  wanted  him  kept  out  of  doors,  and 
he  and  Kip  was  going  on  this  wagon-trip.  But  his  mother 
was  nearly  crazy  worrying  over  it,  and  worrying  the  young 
man  and  crying  all  day  and  night.  She  thought  Kip  never 
could  take  care  of  him.  Well,  those  boys  wanted  me  to  go 


362  IN  NOVEMBER 

off  with  them  on  the  wagon-trip.  They  said  I  could  cook 
for  them,  and  it  would  relieve  the  mother.  And  it  did.  They 
took  me  to  see  her.  And  she  thought  if  a  person  like  me 
could  go  on  a  wagon-trip  it  could  n't  be  so  awful  after  all. 
Well,  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  was,  we  went  to  Fort 
Leavenworth,  and  the  boys  got  a  wagon  anc  provisions  and 
blankets  and  thick  shoes  and  things  for  me,  and  they  got 
two  good  mules  from  the  government  post,  and  we  started 
off/ 

Miss  Brackett  sat  erect.  A  look  of  elation  burned  in  her 
violet  eyes. 

Elsie  drew  a  deep  breath  and  laughed. 

*  Yes.  I  did  n't  like  the  idea  at  first :  all  the  rough  clothes, 
and  our  being  alone  on  the  plains,  and  after  a  while  going  to 
be  right  in  the  desert  —  it  seemed  to  me  terrible.   But  it 
was  the  only  thing  there  was  for  me  to  do.   I  just  kep'  my 
mouth  shut  tight  through  all  that  time.  And  then,  I  don't 
know,  more  and  more,  oh,  I  just  come  to  love  it!' 

After  a  moment  Elsie  said,  'And  did  you  really  have  any 
hardships?' 

*  What  do  you  call  hardship?  The  rainy  reason  was  bad. 
But  I  've  been  lots  wetter  longer  at  a  time,  through  whole 
winters,  when  I  'd  lend  my  rubbers  to  the  children.  Some 
times  it  was  terrible  cold.  But  then  we  always  had  a  good 
fire.  I  've  been  lots  colder  in  the  back  parlor  and  on  crowded 
street-car  platforms,  and  lots  and  lots  more  uncomfortable. 
Once  we  got  off  the  trail.   Once  we  had  a  bad  time  about 
finding  water.  One  night,  after  the  mules  was  hobbled  they 
jumped  along  so  far,  even  hobbled,  that  we  could  n't  get 
them  for  hours.  Kip  and  Will  Bronson  was  gone  six  hours 
in  different  directions;  and  I  was  afraid  they  was  lost.  But 
I've  had  more  hardship,  you  might  say,  and  not  that  I 
want  to  complain  either,  in  one  week  on  the  West  Side  at 
home,  than  in  a  whole  year  of  what  they  called  roughing  it. 


IN  NOVEMBER  363 

And  for  hard  feelings,  and  real  mean  bad  ways  of  acting, 
I  've  seen  more  of  them  over  getting  out  one  shirt-waist  in  a 
dressmaker's  shop,  than  in  that  whole  time  on  the  wagon- 
trip.  Even  though  once  we  had  a  man  in  our  camp  that  we 
heard  afterwards  was  a  criminal  and  fugitive  from  justice,' 
she  added  with  a  laugh. 

'What  sort  of  a  man  was  he?' 

'A  very  considerate,  pleasant  sort  of  man.  He  was  a 
short,  thick-set  fellow  from  Missouri,  with  a  hard  sort  of 
chin.  He  come  riding  up  near  the  Baton  Pass,  and  asked  to 
stay  the  night  and  get  supper  and  breakfast  with  us.  Well, 
it  so  happened  I  had  caught  cold  and  was  n't  feeling  extra. 
The  boys  was  worried  and  sort  of  mad,  —  that  was  the 
worst  trouble  we  had,  —  because  I  would  mend  and  cook 
just  the  same.  The  boys  cooked  terrible,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  I  could  n't  have  no  peace  of  mind,  unless  I  did  it. 
It  made  me  feel  so  as  though  I  was  no  use  to  them  and  not 
paying  my  share  by  what  I  did,  you  know.  Well,  this  man 
from  Missouri  was  a  fine  cook.  He  stayed  with  us  three 
days,  and  by  the  time  he  went  I  was  all  right  again.  He 
was  real  helpful.  They  never  got  him.  When  we  come  to 
Trinidad,  we  was  good  and  surprised  to  find  he  was  a  cattle 
thief  that  shot  a  sheriff  that  tried  to  arrest  him.' 

The  lake  was  paler  now.  White  clouds  plumed  on  the 
horizon,  and  an  evening  glow,  green  and  faintly  flushing, 
was  reflected  delicately  from  the  west.  The  dunes  were 
browner  and  darker.  The  visitor  sat  thinking,  evidently,  of 
her  long,  free  wandering  days.  Elsie,  putting  on  her  shoes, 
sat  thinking  of  her  wayfaring  companion's  mean  and  hate 
ful  life  in  the  very  midst  of  what  is  called  civilization  and 
respectability;  of  her  struggle  for  existence  —  a  struggle  in 
which  she  had  been  all  but  killed  by  the  greedinesses  around 
her;  a  struggle  just  as  sharp  as  any  of  the  nail-and-claw- 
depredations  commonly  attributed  exclusively  to  wilder- 


364  IN  NOVEMBER 

nesses.  They  watched  the  sky  change,  in  an  unspoken 
friendliness. 

'And  now,  you  are  much  better?*  said  Elsie  quietly. 

'Yes.  Now  I 'm  well,  thank  God !  And  the  Bronson  boy 
as  sound  as  a  bell.  That  was  the  most  lucky  illness  you  can 
imagine  for  me.  I  could  n't  go  back  after  that  to  the  way  I 
lived  before.  I  always  would  live  different — more  out 
doors,  and  just  looking  after  myself  better.  Since  that  time, 
I  've  been  lots  more  use  to  myself  and  everybody  else.  After 
we  got  to  California,  I  sewed  here  and  there  for  the  people 
where  we  boarded  first,  and  they  liked  my  sewing  so  much, 
and  I  made  so  much  money,  that  when  Kip  got  a  job  to 
Gary,  engineering  for  the  electric  plant,  and  I  come  too,  to 
keep  house  for  him,  I  put  up  a  sign  and  gradually  I'd 
worked  up  a  good  trade,  before  he  was  married.  Why  I  'm 
going  to  be  able  to  send  Babe  to  Vassar,  and  plenty  for  me 
to  take  a  trip  west,  too,  next  summer.  Kip  married  such  a 
nice  girl/  She  rose.  '  I  've  talked  you  to  death.  But  when 
you  spoke  about  your  cousin,  it  brought  everything  right 
out  of  my  lips  some  way.  I  hope  he 's  not  so  very  sick/ 

'No.  He  will  be  well  again.  He  has  a  splendid  consti 
tution/ 

Miss  Brackett  shook  hands  with  her.  '  I  wish  you  would 
come  in  for  a  minute  and  see  me,  if  you  ever  have  time  some 
day  when  you're  in  Gary/ 

'I  will/ 

'Good-night/ 

'Good-night/ 

As  her  visitor  disappeared  over  the  rounded  ridge  of  the 
dune,  Elsie  heard  the  home-coming  voices  of  the  campers. 
They  had  brought  peanut-taffy  to  her,  and  they  praised  her 
none  the  less  highly  for  her  intended  sacrifice  to  the  Moloch 
of  Mrs.  Horick  and  the  dullness  of  the  world  that  she  had 
not  needed  to  make  this  sacrifice. 


IN  NOVEMBER  365 

For  some  reason,  she  could  not  have  explained  to  them 
about  her  chance  guest.  But  she  was  still  thinking  of  her, 
as  she  walked  from  the  shore  a  little  later  to  gather  firewood 
for  supper.  The  sun  dropped  long-ribbed  level  beams  over 
the  russet  oak-brush  and  buff  shadows  of  the  dunes.  Crim 
son  rifts  broke  in  the  amber  ether  of  the  west.  Rich,  rich, 
soft,  and  deep,  the  fragrance  of  some  far  autumnal  bonfire 
breathed  in  the  cool  air. 

*  Where  are  the  songs  of  spring?  oh,  where  are  they? 
Mourn  not  for  them,  thou  hast  thy  music,  too/  rang  silently 
in  the  girl's  fancy  as  she  stood  looking  around  her.  And 
she  wondered  that  she  never  till  that  day  had  realized  how 
deeply  wild  creation  is  the  birthright  of  every  creature,  not 
only  for  the  power  of  tooth  and  fang,  the  strength  of  the 
marauder,  but  for  the  vitality  of  speed  and  sensitiveness, 
ground-squirrel,  deer,  and  cricket;  and  how  Nature's  most 
profound  magnificence  might  sing,  perhaps,  not  in  her 
thrilling  melody  to  April  pulses,  but  in  her  proud  cadence 
to  November  hearts. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  INTERPRETATIVE 
NOTES 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  INTERPRETATIVE 
NOTES 

THE  LIE 

MARY  ANTIN,  ever  since  The  Promised  Land  first  appeared 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  has  come  to  mark  the  highest  standard 
of  literary  excellence  and  political  idealism  possible  for  the  best 
and  most  gifted  of  our  foreigners  to  attain.  Born  in  Russia,  ed 
ucated  in  Boston  and  New  York,  her  influence  has  been  widely 
exerted  by  her  books  and  by  her  public  addresses. 

One  of  the  chief  points  of  interest  in  Mary  Antin's  story  lies  in 
the  conflict  of  ideas  about  truth.  David  had  learned  that  in 
America  a  good  patriotic  citizen  should  learn  to  tell  the  truth, 
the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  The  demand  for  this 
strictness,  he  came  to  learn,  was  more  particularly  severe  when  as 
sertions  were  recorded  in  writing  on  public  documents.  The  little 
boy  understood  equally  well  that  the  training  which  his  father  had 
received  in  Russia  made  it  seem  right  in  certain  cases  to  swear 
falsely  and  deceive  the  government.  David  therefore  saw  the 
tragical  significance  of  his  father's  false  record  on  the  American 
public  school  document.  In  David's  conception  Mr.  Rudinsky 
had  done  no  wrong  in  telling  the  lie;  yet  that  lie  nevertheless 
stood  out  as  a  bold  contrast  to  George  Washington's  idea  of 
truth.  How  could  the  little  boy  be  loyal  to  both  ideas,  when  the 
ideas  were  diametrically  opposed  to  each  other? 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  What  are  some  of  the  differences  suggested  between  life  for  the  Jew 
ish  person  in  Russia  and  in  America? 

2.  How  does  the  author  indicate  her  own  feelings  in  regard  to  the  prob 
lems  that  confront  David  and  his  father? 

3.  What  does  citizenship  mean  to  Mr.  Rudinsky?     What  are  some  of 
the  more  concrete  forms  by  which  he  makes  his  ideas  of  freedom  evident? 
Does  his  conception  of  Americanism  coincide  with  that  of  the  average 
American? 

25 


370  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

4.  Has  the  literalness  of  David's  interpretation  of  "America"  any  real 
connection  with  the  time  of  the  story?     Was  it  necessary  to  give  so 
much  general  detail  before  the  question  of  David's  age  came  up? 

5.  Why  is  Berime  introduced  into  the  story?      Do  you  find  any  other 
characters  contributing  to  the  humor  or  acting  as  foils? 

6.  How  does  the  author  reveal  Miss  Ralston's  competence  to  recon 
cile  the  two  ideals  of  truth? 


STUDENT'S  COMMENT  ON  "TeE  LIE' 

To  me  the  chief  interest  in  The  Lie  centres  in  the  portrayal  of  character. 
Naturally  I  was  most  interested  in  David,  and  I  found  myself  contrasting 
David's  habitually  serious  devotion  to  his  studies  with  my  own  rather  fit 
ful  habits  of  attack.  The  contrast  was  not  comforting.  Little  Bennie  I 
liked,  too.  Indeed,  I  think  that  for  everyday  living,  I  should  find  him  the 
more  agreeable  companion  of  the  two.  He  bubbles  over  so  easily  and 
charms  us  with  his  frankness  and  unconscious  humor.  Mr.  Rudinsky's 
ambition  for  David  is  splendid  —  so  splendid  that  we  can  pretty  readily 
excuse  the  lie  he  told  about  David's  age.  I  was  not  so  much  interested  in 
Mrs.  Rudinsky,  but  I  nevertheless  felt  that  if  I  were  grading  her  on  her 
proficiency  in  motherhood,  I'd  have  to  give  her  an  A  — ,  — or  at  least  a 
B  + .  And  Miss  Ralston  was  wonderful.  Would  n't  it  be  splendid  if  every 
teacher  could  have  such  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  children's  hearts! 

The  second  item  that  interested  me  was  the  patriotic  note.  In  these 
war  days  everything  even  remotely  connected  with  the  patriotic  ideal  stirs 
us.  I  was  proud  that  I  could  think  of  America  as  the  land  where  my  fath 
ers  had  freely  died  in  order  tha^  I  might  live  in  freedom.  And  I  rather 
guiltily  questioned  whether  I  have  been  showing  by  my  own  service  any  real 
appreciation  of  the  sacrifice  which  these  fathers  had  made.  And  I  felt  a  bit 
ashamed  when  I  thought  that  David's  admiration  for  George  Washington 
somehow  seemed  loftier  and  more  deeply  personal  than  my  own  had  been. 

Another  characteristic  struck  me:  Miss  Antin  portrayed  her  separate 
scenes  with  such  graphic  power.  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  always  remember 
the  whimsical  figure  of  David  in  the  George  Washington  coat  that  was  so 
much  too  big  for  the  tiny  figure.  But  I  was  almost  afraid  to  laagh  for  fear 
of  hurting  David's  feelings,  for  David  somehow  seemed  so  very  near. 
This  touch  of  reality  is  equally  strong  in  the  passage  which  describes 
Mrs.  Rudinsky  and  her  hasty  toilet,  and  her  hands  on  which  the  scrub 
bing  brush  and  paring  knife  had  left  their  unmistakable  marks. 

I,  of  course,  find  that  I  was  interested  in  the  plot.  Indeed,  I  read  stories 
principally  for  the  fun  of  seeing  how  the  events  shape  themselves  at  the 
close.  It  does  n't  matter  here  that  we  are  not  told  exactly  what  happened 
in  that  conversation  between  Miss  Ralston  and  David.  We  know  that  the 
trouble  was  all  smoothed  out.  Personally,  I  feel  quite  sure  that  David 
finally  took  part  in  that  school  entertainment. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  371 

BLUE  REEFERS 

ELIZABETH  ASHE  is  the  pen  name  of  Georgiana  Pentlarge,  a 
young  and  promising  story-writer,  living  in  Boston. 

A  reefer  properly  belongs  in  the  category  useful.  Even  in  its 
second  or  third  season  of  usefulness,  it  retains  certain  warm  and 
comforting  qualities.  How  its  sphere  of  endeavor  may  be  ex 
tended  to  include  a  divine  mission  of  poetic  justice,  Miss  Ashe 
unfolds  in  a  delightfully  humorous  experience  of  two  little  girls 
—  one  very  pretty  and  habitually  urbane,  the  other  very  homely 
and  rather  crude.  With  reefers  smothering  all  glories  of  Persian 
lawn  and  fine  silk  slips,  we  have  two  little  girls  arrived  at  the 
height  of  ecstatic  self-forgetfulness  in  the  excitement  of  giving  a 
recitation  for  the  Christmas  entertainment. 

Complete  satisfaction,  too,  is  the  reader's.  What  a  delightful 
chuckle  he  gives  over  Aunt  Emma's  chagrin  at  discovering  that, 
in  the  matter  of  little  girls,  golden  hair  and  pink  cheeks,  or  freckles 
and  a  'jaw,'  make  very  little  difference!  Yet  his  chuckle,  after 
all,  is  only  an  echo  from  an  adult  world,  a  world  suggested  to 
Martha  by  the  vague  whisperings  of  Father  and  Mother  after  she 
has  gone  to  bed.  Far  more  real  is  the  world  Miss  Ashe  has  created, 
where  Miss  Miriam's  black  dress  and  gold  cross  present  a  charm 
ing  but  insoluble  mystery;  where  one  is  forced,  however  regret 
fully,  to  reconcile  cotton-batting  with  a  Sunday-School  Christmas 
tree,  and  where  *  it  is  so  nice  to  be  in  things.' 

Suggested  Paints  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Comment  on  the  author's  use  of  detail.    Does  it  create  a  real  atmos 
phere? 

2.  Is  the  author  successful  in  her  interpretation  of  the  mind  of  the 
small  girl?   Is  the  author's  own  personality  ever  intruded?  How  is  she 
able  to  secure  the  larger  view  of  the  events  that  take  place? 

3.  Is  the  climax  made  more  or  less  effective  by  the  children's  uncon 
sciousness  of  their  act?    Would  you  have  preferred  a  more  startling 
denouement? 

4.  Why  is  Luella  sketched  so  lightly?  Is  the  contrast  only  between  the 
two  little  girls? 

5.  How  does  Miss  Miriam  contribute  to  the  interest  in  the  story? 

6.  Comment  on  the  skillful  ending  of  the  story. 


372  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

THE  DEBT 

KATHLEEN  CARMAN  (Mrs.  L.  N.  Dodge),  a  writer  of  interesting 
short  stories,  lives  in  Evanston,  Illinois.  The  Debt  is  her  first 
contribution  to  The  Atlantic. 

Certain  of  the  old  Flemish  painters  present  a  canvas  which 
seems  to  suggest  that  a  peaceful  meadow-land,  a  winding  river,  or 
a  distant  mountain-slope,  exists  only  as  a  background  for  the 
figure  in  which  they  are  interested.  The  relative  importance  is 
indicated  by  the  proportions  that  make  the  figure  loom  large  and 
masterful  within  the  scene.  Miss  Carman,  too,  has  cleared  her 
canvas  for  the  presentation  of  her  figure;  but  her  heroine  is  very 
small,  very  insignificant,  in  the  presence  of  greater  realities  of 
expansive  sea,  cloud-fancies,  or  the  rising  moon.  The  interest  of 
the  story  centres  in  the  relation  between  Nature  —  more  exactly 
God  in  Nature  —  and  patient,  plodding  Sister  Anne. 

Nothing  else  matters.  The  problem  itself  is  clear  to  Sister 
Anne;  only  the  solution  is  difficult.  To  one  whose  life  has  seen 
all  the  unloveliness  of  heavy  manual  labor,  there  exists  a  pressing 
necessity  to  pay  for  the  joy  of  living  that  is  in  her:  a  strange,  ab 
sorbing  joy  in  the  beauty  that  God  has  created.  Praise  and  prayer 
are  not  her  instruments.  A  loving  attendance  at  chapel  and  early 
matins  cannot  translate  her  feelings.  Love  and  worship  must  be 
transmuted  into  the  thing  she  knows  —  service. 

The  time  comes.  Simply,  consciously,  unquestioning,  she  risks 
her  life  to  return  another's  to  God  —  a  small  payment  for  what 
He  has  given  her.  The  problem  is  between  them.  Her  devout 
companions  may  admire,  the  wealthy  landowner  wonder;  noth 
ing  can  be  given  to  this  'poor,  lonely,  ignorant,  toil-worn  being, 
who  in  her  starved  existence  had  found  more  joy  than  she  could 
make  return  for.' 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  The  reader  will  find  it  interesting  to  contrast  the  ways  in  which 
Sister  Anne  and  The  Princess,  in  Miss  DonnelTs  story  of  The  Princess  of 
Make-Believe,  reconcile  themselves  to  the  drudgery  of  dish-washing  and 
similar  tasks  of  kitchen  routine. 

2.  What  various  manifestations  of  nature  especially  impressed  Sister 
Anne?  What  appeal  did  these  make  to  her  companions? 

3.  Do  you  regard  the  author's  prolonged  analytical  method  of  charac 
terization —  as  employed  in  the  first  part  of  the  story  —  as  the  most 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  373 

effective  means  of  bringing  the  reader  into  an  understanding  of  the  deeper 
personality  of  Sister  Anne? 

4.  What  special  detail  in  this  analysis  most  strongly  impresses  you? 

5.  What  other  method  might  have  been  adopted? 

6.  Characterize  fully  the  spirit  and  the  motive  which  impel  Sister 
Anne's  final  deed  of  sacrifice.     What  impresses  you  as  the  finest  element 
in  her  act? 

7.  Comment  upon  the  author's  way  of  ending  the  story. 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED   FIRE 

CORNELIA  A.  P.  COMER,  accomplished  critic,  essayist,  and 
writer  of  short  stories,  was  educated  at  Vassar,  and  afterwards 
engaged  in  journalistic  work  in  the  Middle  West  and  California. 
She  now  lives  in  Seattle. 

There  are  really  three  stories  in  one:  Cynthia's  and  Dick's  we 
put  together  from  suggestions;  that  of  Seth  Miles  we  know  from 
his  own  detailed  narrative;  Richard's  remains  for  our  forming. 
All  the  details  are  woven  into  a  tale  of  one  day.  A  day  hot  and 
sultry  in  itself  is  made  to  coincide  with  the  grumblings  and  self- 
pitying  of  a  pampered  son;  both  day  and  character  are  cleared 
without  the  arrival  of  the  threatened  storm,  and  duty  is  made 
as  splendid  and  beautiful  as  the  sun  emerging  from  a  darkened 
sky.  A  dilettante,  conceiving  in  his  cultured  self  an  appropriate 
offering  from  Mammon  to  the  Muses,  learns  that  even  the  heir 
of  millions  has  work  to  do.  The  place  and  the  teacher  emphasize 
the  greatness  of  the  lesson.  There  is  little  doubt  in  the  reader's 
mind  that  Seth  Miles's  sacrifice  has  been  worth  while.  To  him 
comes  a  double  reward:  the  realization  that  Cynthia  and  Dick 
have  lived  lives  worth  his  self-denial,  and  the  satisfaction  that 
to  their  son,  through  his  own  wise  teachings,  has  come  the  ability 
to  'sense  things.' 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Comment  upon  the  advantages  secured  by  opening  the  story  with 
direct  quotations. 

2.  What  light  do  these  quotations  throw  upon  the  character  of  Rich 
ard's  father? 

3.  Note  how  quickly  the  transfer  is  made  from  the  office  of  Mr.  Bonni- 
well,  Senior,  to  Seth  Miles's  farm  house.   Such  compression  is  necessary 
in  a  short  story. 


374  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

4.  How  do  you  explain  Richard's  first  attitude  toward  his  teaching  and 
toward  all  his  surroundings  at  Garibaldi? 

5.  What  was  the  first  surprise  Richard  received  concerning  the  char 
acter  of  Seth  Miles? 

6.  What,  according  to  Mr.  Miles,  was  the  marked  change  which  the 
young  teacher,  'Earnin'  money  to  get  through  college,'  effected? 

7.  Was  Seth  Miles's  sacrifice  —  the  sacrifice  he  made  when  he  gave 
up  Cynthia  —  a  natural  one  under  the  circumstances?    Why?    What 
helped  to  console  him  for  his  loss? 

8.  What  was  the  second  sacrifice,  and  in  what  spirit  was  it  met? 

9.  Contrast  Seth  Miles's  spirit  with  the  spirit  of  Sister  Anne  in  Miss 
Carman's  The  Debt. 


BURIED  TREASURE 

Miss  MAZO  DE  LA  ROCHE  has  attained  her  most  notable  liter 
ary  success  in  Buried  Treasure.  So  apparent  is  this  success,  that  a 
moving-picture  company  has  recently  asked  the  privilege  of  pro 
ducing  this  story. 

One  suspects  that  Mrs.  Mortimer  Pegg  never  was  a  little  girl; 
one  is  surprised  to  learn  that  Mr.  Mortimer  Pegg  was,  in  a 
mysterious  long  ago,  'just  so  high';  that  Mrs.  Handsomebody 
issued  from  some  unnamable  monstrosity  a  full-fledged,  much- 
starched  governess,  is  beyond  doubt.  If  not,  how  could  they  fail 
to  enter  with  zest  into  the  midnight  treasure-hunt?  What  a  won 
derful  scene  it  is:  a  burly  old  pirate  in  leather  jerkin,  breeches, 
and  top-boots,  not  to  mention  a  gleaming  cutlass,  surrounded  by 
an  Angel,  a  Seraph,  and  'just  John/  with  as  bloodthirsty  appoint 
ments,  all  intent  on  the  treasure-trove  mysteriously  located  in 
Mrs.  Handsomebody's  back  yard.  And  then  come  the  Grown- 
Ups!  Poor  Mr.  Pegg  must  return  to  the  disguise  of  an  archaeol 
ogist  and  the  realms  of  respectable  age. 

Suggested  Paints  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Divide  the  story  into  scenes  for  a  motion-picture  production.  What 
would  be  the  most  regrettable  loss  in  such  a  representation? 

2.  What  do  the  names  of  the  characters  contribute  to  the  charm  of 
the  story?  Are  they  any  help  to  your  interpretation  of  the  characters? 

3.  Comment  on  the  characterization  of  Mary  Ellen.    Is  she  a  type  ? 
Are  there  any  other  characters  that  you  recognize  as  types?    Do  the 
presence  of  these  detract  from  the  real  interest  of  the  story? 

4.  Discuss  the  author's  power  of  word-selection  and  striking  compari 
sons.  What  does  this  power  add  to  her  style? 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  375 

THE  PRINCESS  OF  MAKE-BELIEVE 

ANNIE  HAMILTON  DONNELL  was  born  in  Maine,  where  much  of 
her  life  has  been  spent.  She  has,  however,  lived  in  the  Middle 
West,  and  her  present  home  is  in  Framingham,  Massachu 
setts.  She  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  many  of  our  best 
periodicals. 

It  is  the  charm  of  perfect  understanding  that  lifts  Annie 
Hamilton  DonnelPs  story,  out  of  the  many,  into  that  enchanting 
region  inhabited  by  such  bewildering  creatures  as  Rebecca  of 
Sunnybrook  Farm  and  Anne  of  the  famed  Green  Gables.  To  the 
author  must  be  attributed  that  same  responsive  gift  that  makes 
the  Prince  really  a  Prince.  For  the  Princess  there  is  no  evil  to 
her  who  will  not  see  it;  so  there  is  no  harsh  stepmother  or  horrid 
witch  —  only  a  Queen  who  *  never  en  joys  herself  on  wash-days.' 
The  author's  delightful  touches  of  humor  make  an  easy  and  com 
fortable  medium  from  Make-Believe  to  a  no  less  interesting 
world  of  Little  Willow  Twins  and  fishing  pools. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  What  is  the  most  marked  characteristic  of  the  Princess? 

2.  What  foils  are  introduced  to  bring  this  characteristic  into  bolder 
view? 

3.  In  what  particular  items  is  the  author's  sense  of  humor  best  dis 
played? 

4.  Where  is  the  emotion  of  the  Princess  most  intense? 

5.  Is  this  emotion  suddenly  or  gradually  destroyed? 

6.  What  are  the  points  of  strongest  contrast  between  the  imagined 
Prince  and  the  real  little  neighbor-boy? 

7.  Comment  on  the  sudden  ending  of  the  story. 


THE  TWO  APPLES 

JAMES  EDMUND  DUNNING,  journalist  and  publicist,  is  the 
author  of  many  reviews,  government  reports,  essays,  and  short 
stories.  He  has  had  a  long  and  honorable  connection  with  the 
Department  of  State  at  Washington. 

What  has  happened  before  the  sixteenth  day,  what  ship  it  was, 
what  its  destination,  who  its  crew,  how  they  had  been  wrecked, 
we  are  not  told;  nor  are  we  particularly  concerned  with  the  his 
tory  of  those  preceding  events.  We  are  intent  on  one  man  living 
with  half-mad  intensity  a  whole  life  in  a  single  day.  It  is  not  so 


376  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

much  that  he  knows  the  pain  of  diminishing  vitality,  the  scorch- 
ings  of  hunger  and  thirst,  as  it  is  the  spiritual  tortures  he  under 
goes.  Everything  that  treacherous  Desire  can  mean,  he  feels.  It 
is  only  an  apple,  but  as  he,  in  his  hungered,  famished  state, 
gazes  upon  it,  every  sense  is  alive  with  an  intense  elemental  de 
sire.  At  the  moment  of  severest  trial,  with  the  clearness  of  vision 
of  those  near  death,  he  sees  himself,  knows  his  sin,  feels  the 
mercy  of  God.  And  as  the  day  closes,  he  experiences  the  happi 
ness  of  sacrifice.  Beside  him  Zadoc  sleeps,  perhaps  drifts  off  into 
the  Unknown. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  If  the  author  had  wished  to  make  a  much  longer  story  of  this,  what 
episode  or  episodes  could  he  have  greatly  elaborated?    Can  you  surmise 
why  he  did  not  do  this,  but  preferred  rather  to  develop  the  situation  he 
had  selected? 

2.  What  artistic  effect  is  created  by  the  description  of  the  Cape  Cod 
farm?  Analyze  the  sensory  imagery. 

3.  Why  does  Zadoc  command  that  the  last  apple  be  placed  '  under  the 
tin  cup  in  the  middle  of  the  raft'? 

4.  What  had  previously  been  Jeems's  attitude  toward  the  sea?  Has  his 
attitude  now  changed?  Why,  or  why  not? 

5.  From  the  standpoint  of  mere  sense-impression,  what  is  the  most 
significant  moment  in  the  story? 

6.  What  is  the  point  of  highest  spiritual  interest? 


THE  PURPLE  STAR 

MRS.  REBECCA  HOOPER  EASTMAN,  a  magazine  writer  of  dis 
tinction,  lives  in  Brooklyn,  .New  York.  Her  father,  the  late  Dr. 
Hooper,  was  for  many  years  president  of  the  Brooklyn  Institute. 

The  judgment  of  his  peers  proved  fatal  to  the  glory  of  Charley 
Starr.  Miss  Prawl,  the  sixth-grade  teacher,  learned,  too,  with 
surprise,  that  if  one  is  a  dutiful  child  who  neither  disobeys  nor 
deceives,  he  thereby  lessens  his  opportunity  to  achieve  the  heroic. 
The  literalness  of  Theodora  and  her  zealots  destroys  any  romantic 
impulse  to  make  reckless  synonymous  with  brave.  One  is  re 
minded  that  the  youthful  escapades  which  brighten  the  biogra 
phies  of  certain  national  heroes  —  always  making  notable  ex 
ception  of  the  Father  of  Our  Country  —  would  not  have  met  the 
rigorous  demands  of  Theodora's  approval.  The  conclusion  is 
obvious:  it  is  difficult  to  become  a  hero  and  at  the  same  time  re- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  377 

tain  all  the  virtues  —  particularly  the  much-desired  charity. 
And  who  would  be  judge?  Let  the  order  of  the  Purple  Star  be 
abolished! 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1 .  What  is  the  author's  purpose  in  writing  this  story? 

2.  What  are  the  chief  points  of  interest,  besides  this  well-defined 
purpose? 

3.  Are  you  satisfied  with  the  outcome  of  the  story?  Could  you  suggest 
any  other  way  of  meeting  the  problem? 

4.  Do  you  find  the  characters  real?  Is  Theodora  typical? 

5.  Why  is  it  necessary  to  make  character  and  setting  somewhat  sub 
ordinate? 

6.  Do  you  like  the  introduction?  What  is  the  basis  of  its  charm? 

7.  Do  you  find  the  author  critical  of  other  things  outside  the  immediate 
purpose  of  the  story? 


RUGGS  —  R.  O.  T.  C. 

WILLIAM  A.  GANOE,  now  stationed  at  West  Point,  is  a  captain 
in  the  Regular  Army.  When  Ruggs  —  R.  0.  T.  C.  was  printed  in 
the  Atlantic,  it  was  immediately  tried  out  in  the  class-room,  where 
it  won  the  instant  favor  of  high-school  pupils.  It  was  the  first 
story  to  be  issued  in  the  series  of  Atlantic  Readings. 

Amusing  situations,  with  lively  dialogue  a-plenty,  in  this  train 
ing-camp  story  of  Mr.  Ganoe,  are  the  conveyances  for  a  splendid 
lesson  in  pluck.  Ruggs,  the  successful  bank-manager,  knew  that 
only  the  best  in  the  individual  is  worthy  of  recognition  when  it 
comes  to  government  service.  He  meant  to  give  that  best.  The 
trial  came.  Despite  the  confusion  and  the  jeers,  Ruggs  came 
through;  brains  and  thorough-going  effort  counted.  To  Ruggs  it 
meant  a  first  lieutenancy  for  his  pluck,  something  to  tell  Alice, 
and  a  ride  in  a  blanket  for  the  glorious  'sell'  he  had  practised  on 
his  jeering  comrades.  Underneath  the  fun  and  the  hazing,  there 
is,  on  all  sides,  sincere  appreciation  of  merit. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  What  purpose  does  the  opening  dream  serve,  besides  that  of  arousing 
immediate  interest? 

2.  Besides  his  ability  for  quick  decision,  what  is  the  outstanding  fea 
ture  of  Ruggs's  character? 

3.  How  is  the  character  of  the  Meter  drawn?  Is  there  any  advantage 
in  not  naming  him? 


378  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

4.  Are  you  prepared  for  the  Meter's  decision  in  regard  to  the  Duke? 
Is  the  latter  introduced  into  the  story  for  any  purpose  other  than  to 
amuse? 

5.  What  are  the  author's  chief  means  of  keeping  suspense? 

6.  What  ends  do  Squirmy 's  nightly  exercises  serve? 

7.  Would  it  have  added  to  the  interest  of  the  study  to  have  Alice  more 
fully  characterized?    Why  is  she  introduced? 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE 

LUCY  HUFFAKER  is  a  short-story  writer  of  distinction,  who 
has  recently  been  devoting  her  principal  interest  to  the  drama. 
She  is  connected  with  the  Washington  Square  players  in  New 
York  City. 

In  the  short  space  of  a  May  evening,  Emmeline  Black,  mother 
of  eight  children,  a  good  wife  for  a  farmer,  careful  and  industrious, 
lives  through  her  girlhood  aspirations  and  the  complete  shattering 
of  her  dreams.  Finally,  there  comes  to  her  the  greater  tragedy  of 
the  realization  that,  in  spite  of  what  she  can  do,  her  daughter 
faces  the  same  career  of  fantasy  and  disillusionment.  For  the 
first  time  in  twenty-one  years,  Jake  Black  finds  his  wife  different, 
almost  a  bit  untractable.  Yet  he  can  find  no  solution  for  the 
problem.  'Em'  has  been  a  good  wife,  their  marriage  has  been 
successful,  his  daughter's  possible  engagement  augurs  well  for 
the  future;  but  'Em '  is  worried  about  something.  It  is  the  daugh 
ter  herself  who  sets  their  small  world  aright.  Her  gratitude  for 
the  dreams  her  mother  has  given  her  brings  to  Emmeline  the 
realization  of  the  value  of  inspiration  where  accomplishment 
proves  impossible.  The  years  of  hard  work  before  her,  and  the 
prospect  of  a  similar  life  for  her  daughter,  grow  insignificant  be 
fore  the  new  consciousness  that  dreams  do  last. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Comment  on  the  general  atmosphere  produced  by  the  opening 
paragraphs. 

2.  What  descriptive  details  contribute  particularly  to  the  realism  of 
the  scene? 

3.  How  is  this  realism  more  fully  brought  out  in  the  conversation 
between  the  wife  and  husband? 

4.  What  feelings  prompted  the  lie  which  Mrs.  Black  told?   What  can 
be  said  in  extenuation  of  this  lapse? 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  379 

5.  What  contrasts  were  prominent  in  her  mind? 

6.  What  in  Victoria's  character,  makes  the  strongest  appeal? 

7.  Do  we  feel  that  Victoria  is  more  likely  than  her  mother  to  keep  the 
youthful  dreams  and  visions? 

8.  What  is  Mrs.  Black's  greatest  consolation? 

9.  Comment  on  the  author's  way  of  ending  her  story. 


A  YEAR  IN  A  COAL  MINE 

JOSEPH  HUSBAND  has,  since  his  graduation  from  Harvard  in 
1907,  been  engaged  in  industrial  pursuits.  He  has,  however, 
found  time  to  contribute  frequently  to  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 
At  present  Mr.  Husband  is  an  ensign  in  the  United  States  Navy. 
The  first  account  of  his  naval  experience  is  published  in  the  May 
(1918)  Atlantic. 

For  vividness  of  sense-suggestion  —  color,  sound,  smell,  feel 
ing —  Joseph  Husband's  smooth-flowing  narration  of  a  year's 
experience  in  a  soft-coal  mine  is  worthy  of  study.  The  blackness 
which  is  'absence  of  light  rather  than  darkness,'  the  submerging 
silence,  the  seeping  gas-vapors,  the  nervous  consciousness  of 
lurking  danger  —  all  these  give  indisputable  atmosphere.  What 
grim  tragedy,  awful  in  its  heavy  brutality,  might  not  here  be 
grimly  enacted!  Instead,  there  is  work  —  the  grimy,  sweating 
work  of  the  underground;  hard  muscles,  and  senses  not  too  alive 
to  material  forces.  An  occasional  superstition  gives  life  to  the 
blackness  —  a  strange  white  phantom  that  dazzles  the  sight  and 
blinds  the  understanding  with  unreasoning  fear.  But  most  vivid 
of  all  is  the  blackness  and  the  work. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  How  does  the  author's  preface  add  to  the  interest  in  his  narrative? 
Are  your  expectations  of  his  added  power  borne  out? 

2.  Do  you  find  Mr.  Husband  more  able  in  his  descriptions  of  large 
scenes,  masses  of  buildings,  groups  of  people,  —  or  in  the  individualizing 
of  the  single  person  or  thing? 

3.  Is  the  setting  for  the  work,  or  the  work  itself,  the  chief  purpose  of 
the  narrative?  Which  do  you  find  the  more  interesting? 

4.  Can  you  explain  the  author's  feelings  of  mortification  as  he  first 
enters  upon  his  duties? 

5.  What  are  some  of  the  elements  that  make  for  the  vividness  of  the 
scenes? 


380  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

6.  Why  is  the  occasional  mention  of  color  so  effective? 

7.  Contrast  the  mental  occupations  during  a  period  of  temporary 
leisure  in  a  coal  mine  with  a  similar  rest  hour  in  the  upper  world? 

8.  From  reading  this  narrative,  can  you  offer  any  reasons  why  the 
ancient  peoples  believed  mines  to  be  inhabited  by  a  race  of  gnomes? 


WOMAN'S  SPHERE 

S.  H.  KEMPER'S  short  stories  reveal  a  genuinely  sympathetic 
understanding  of  child-life.  Mr.  Kemper's  present  home  is  in 
Scranton,  Pennsylvania. 

The  plot  itself  is  slight:  the  presentation  of  a  ball  —  a  worsted 
ball  —  as  a  birthday  present  to  a  boy  of  nine!  The  comic  element 
immediately  suggests  itself;  Wilbur  discovers  that  it  may  come 
very  near  tragedy  —  not  for  him,  but  for  Aunt  Susan.  To  be  so 
inconceivably  old  that  one  cannot  understand  what  a  ball  of  gay 
worsted  would  mean  to  a  boy  who  had  already  practised  imag 
inary  curves  with  a  magnificent  white  sphere  bearing  the  proud 
blue  label  of  the  American  League!  All  Wilbur's  chivalric  nature 
is  called  out  to  keep  his  great  aunt  from  knowing  how  great  is  her 
misunderstanding,  and  how  keen  his  aching  pity  that  age  could 
be  so  terrible. 

Is  there,  perhaps,  a  suggestion  here  of  refined  propaganda?  — 
Education  for  women  —  higher,  broader,  what  you  will? 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Contrast  Aunt  Susan  with  Wilbur's  grandmother. 

2.  Mention  certain  significant  items  that  contribute  to  the  realism  of 
the  various  situations. 

3.  Comment  on  the  way  in  which  Wilbur's  fancy  works,  as  he  views  the 
ball  in  anticipation. 

4.  What  was  there  in  Aunt  Susan's  conversation  that  reveals  her  lack 
of  understanding  of  boy  nature? 

5.  Is  there  any  element  of  surprise  in  the  way  Wilbur  takes  his  disap 
pointment?    Comment  fully  upon  his  varied  emotions. 

6.  What  is  the  marked  contrast  between  Aunt  Susan  and  Wilbur's 
father? 

7.  Which  paragraph  is  most  interesting  from  the  point  of  view  of 
setting?  Why? 

8.  Comment  on  the  aptness  of  the  title. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  381 

BABANCHIK 

CHRISTINA  KRYSTO  lived  the  first  nine  years  of  her  life,  from 
1887  to  1896,  in  Russia.  She  then  came  with  her  father's  family 
to  America,  settling  on  a  ranch.  Her  vocation  is  ranch-work ;  her 
avocation  is  writing.  Miss  Krysto's  The  Mother  of  Stasya  is 
published  in  the  June  (1918)  Atlantic. 

An  Armenian,  a  Revolutionist,  a  voluntary  exile,  desiring  in  his 
old  age  nothing  so  much  as  the  privilege  of  serving  Russia, 
whose  government,  institutions,  and  rulers  he  had  fought  all  his 
seventy  years  —  such  is  Babanchik.  Russia  had  driven  his 
twenty-year-old  daughter  into  an  exile  of  hard  labor,  had  impris 
oned  his  son  for  the  best  ten  years  of  his  life;  and  Babanchik  died 
because  his  strength  was  too  weak  to  carry  him  back  to  serve  her. 
Shall  you  call  it  patriotism  in  a  man  who  cursed  his  native  land 
with  a  hymn  of  everlasting  hate?  racial  instinct  in  one  whose 
Armenian  birth  made  him  an  object  of  official  suspicion?  Here 
there  could  be  no  overpowering  conviction  that  his  country's 
civilization  must  be  protected  against  the  dreaded  Kultur.  Yet 
the  desire  comes  —  not  only  his  own,  but  the  command  of  his 
imprisoned  son,  that  he  serve  Russia. 

There  are  other  beautiful  things  in  Christina  Krysto's  story, 
not  the  least  of  which  are  the  suggestive  bits  of  description  of  the 
life  in  the  Georgian  village.  Yet  Babanchik,  of  the  caressing  name, 
product  of  that  strange  country  whose  people  grow  more  incom 
prehensible  as  the  Great  War  progresses,  interesting  as  he  is, 
directing  the  summer  play  in  the  Caucasian  Mountains,  is  a 
thousand  times  more  wonderful  when  swayed  by  the  unnamed 
power  that  returns  him  dead  to  Russia. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  ana  Comment 

1.  What  are  the  characteristics  in  Babanchik  that  make  him  a  favorite 
with  the  children? 

2.  Contrast  the  Babanchik  who  played  with  the  children  with  the 
Babanchik  who  talked  with  the  father. 

3.  What  were  Babanchik's  most  serious  interests? 

4.  What  circumstances  of  his  birth  hampered  his  influence  with  the 
Russian  government? 

5.  How  was  his  ambition  to  become  a  member  of  the  city  Duma 
crushed? 

6.  In  spite  of  government  intervention,  what  were  some  of  the  bene 
ficial  influences  which  Babanchik  found  that  he  could  exert? 


382  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

7.  What  was  there  in  the  government  of  Russia  that  was  particularly 
distasteful  to  a  man  of  Babanchik's  nature? 

8.  What  strong  traits  of  Babanchik  are  brought  out  in  that  long  furious 
fight  for  his  children  in  the  Russian  prison? 

9.  What  effect  did  the  war  have  upon  Babanchik's  view  of  Russia? 

10.  What  hastened  the  old  man's  desire  to  return? 

11.  Comment  upon  the  author's  artistic  close. 


ROSITA 

ELLEN  MACKUBIN  was,  several  years  ago,  a  frequent  contribu 
tor  to  the  Atlantic.  Nearly  all  her  stories  are  tinged  with  the  mili 
tary  spirit  with  which  she  was  thoroughly  familiar. 

The  cause  of  the  deed  is  never  revealed  to  the  garrison;  its  con 
sequences  can  only  be  surmised.  Indeed  the  true  standing  of  the 
affair  as  tragedy  is  only  guessed.  The  instigator  of  the  quarrel  be 
tween  Major  Prior  and  Jerry  Breton,  the  perpetrator,  and  the  vic 
tim  of  the  tragedy  unite  in  the  person  of  one  christianized  just 
enough  to  suffer  for  the  savage  instincts  she  had  never  learned  to 
control.  We  see  her  just  once,  Rosita,  the  beautiful,  the  impul 
sive,  the  passionate ;  the  next  time  she  is  dead.  It  is  the  feeling  of 
repressed  power  that  makes  Ellen  Mackubin's  story  grip  the  at 
tention.  In  a  few  short  pages,  three — possibly  four  —  characters 
are  made  to  live,  and  a  tragedy  wrecks  two  lives. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Discuss  which  of  the  common  elements  of  story  —  setting,  plot, 
character,  theme,  or  style  —  is  here  most  prominent. 

2.  Discuss  the  way  in  which  the  separate  characters  are  introduced  and 
the  complication  arranged. 

3.  How  can  Jerry's  treatment  of  the  commanding  officer  on  the  day  of 
the  dress  parade  be  condoned? 

4.  How  does  the  reader  feel  regarding  Rosita's  vague  declaration  that 
she  will  rid  Jerry  of  Prior's  unfairness? 

5.  On  the  night  of  the  shooting,  what  motive  prompted  Jerry  to  fling 
the  pistol  far  over  the  edge  of  the  bluff? 

6.  Describe  the  effects  which  the  tragedy  produced  upon  the  garrison. 

7.  What  were  Jerry's  feelings  during  the  days  immediately  succeeding 
the  tragedy? 

8.  How  does  the  reader  decide  the  question  as  to  who  is  the  really  guilty 
person? 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  383 

PERJURED 

EDITH  RONALD  MIRMELEES  is  a  member  of  the  English  De 
partment  of  Leland  Stanford  Junior  University. 

It  was  a  useless  lie.  Robbins  knew  that,  as  soon  as  he  had 
spoken  it.  But  it  stopped  the  boys'  teasing.  Once  spoken,  events 
followed  in  too  rapid  succession  for  him  to  do  more  than  qualify 
his  statement;  the  bald  accusation  remained.  Repetition  had 
done  more  than  confirm  the  story  in  Sutro;  it  had  benumbed 
Robbins' s  own  sense  of  exactness.  His  reputation  for  truth  con 
stantly  confronted  him;  sometimes  it  made  it  easier  for  him,  but 
increasingly  often  he  saw  the  difiiculty  of  reconciling  the  lie  with 
himself.  On  the  other  hand,  time  and  self-torture  strengthened 
the  conviction  that  truth  must  prevail  and  that  no  innocent  man 
could  suffer  by  the  law.  And  so  it  proved.  Robbins,  the  boy  who 
had  tried  to  save  himself  from  momentary  discomfiture,  who  had 
deliberately  placed  a  man  in  direct  accusation  for  murder,  found 
himself,  not  a  self-righteous  person  who  by  a  last  act  of  grace 
redeems  the  innocent  and  places  himself  on  a  martyr's  pedestal; 
instead,  he  found  himself  a  perjured  youth,  no  better  than  the 
truck-gardener  Emerson  in  whom  truth  itself  lost  credence. 

That  a  malignant  fate  had  placed  the  name  of  the  guilty  man 
in  the  boy's  mouth,  comes  with  no  shock;  the  author  has  so  care 
fully  prepared  our  minds  for  that  very  verdict,  that  we  are  merely 
surprised  that  we  could  have  forgotten  the  bits  of  telling  evidence. 
The  interest  begins  and  ends  with  a  boy  of  sixteen  who  in  weak 
ness  was  forsworn. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Comment  on  the  appropriateness  of  the  direct  opening.     Is  such 
a  method  more  appropriate  to  one  type  of  story  than  another? 

2.  Describe  the  steps  by  which  the  author  prepares  for,  without  ex 
plaining,  his  climax. 

3.  How  does  the  author  focus  attention,  not  on  the  murderer  and 
criminal,  but  on  the  individual  problem  of  Robbins?  Would  you  have 
preferred  a  more  detailed  explanation  of  the  cause  of  the  crime? 

\4.  Why  is  Emerson  introduced? 

5.  Is  the  enormity  of  the  injury  he  is  doing  ever  clear  to  Robbins? 

6.  What  other  stories  are  included,  but  left  untold,  in  this  one? 

7.  What,  to  you,  is  the  most  significant  thing  in  the  author's  han 
dling  of  the  narrative?  Why  would  such  a  story  not  lend  itself  to  scenic 
production? 


384  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

WHAT  MR.  GREY  SAID 

MARGARET  PRESCOTT  MONTAGUE,  living  among  the  West 
Virginia  mountains,  has  written  many  successful  stories  of  the 
Hill  people  whom  she  knows  so  well. 

To  make  of  the  little  blind  child  of  the  coal-miner  a  compel- 
lingly  human  little  soul,  yet  to  touch  him  with  a  warmth  and 
beauty  of  imagination  so  exquisite  that  it  pains  the  heart;  to  do 
all  this  so  deftly,  so  tenderly  that  one  draws  a  quick  breath  of 
wonder  —  these  are  only  bare  suggestions  of  the  power  that 
created  Margaret  Prescott  Montague's  What  Mr.  Grey  Said. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Contrast  the  richness  of  sense-perceptions  of  Stanislaus  with  his 
poverty  of  all  things  else. 

2.  Analyze  the  elements  that  make  up  the  charm  of  Stanislaus.  Aside 
from  the  pathetic,  what  is  the  strongest  interest? 

3.  How  does  Miss  Julia  help  to  prolong  the  suspense? 

4.  Would  the  story  have  been  as  powerful  if  it  were  entirely  tragic? 

5.  Would  the  story  have  gained  if  Stanislaus  were  presented  in  direct 
contrast  to  the  other  blind  children?    Why  would  a  longer  story  have 
been  weaker? 

6.  Does  the  dialect  contribute  to  the  charm  of  the  story?  What  is  the 
real  function  of  dialect? 

7.  Does  the  ending  seem  a  makeshift  to  avoid  a    difficulty?    How 
has  the  author  succeeded  in  making  the  ending  not  only  possible  but 
probable?  

A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

E.  MORLAE  was  an  American  who,  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Great  War,  enlisted  in  the  French  Army  and  became  a  Soldier  of 
the  Legion.  Many  of  his  war  experiences  are  graphically  told  in 
his  various  articles  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

'We  spent  our  time  eating  and  sleeping,  mildly  distracted  by 
an  intermittent  bombardment':  these  were  the  breathing  spells; 
active  work  found  analogy  only  in  the  regions  below.  Yet  either 
adventure  was  told  with  equal  calm.  That  is  what  impresses  one 
in  Sergeant  Morlae's  narrative.  It  is  so  grimly  calm,  almost 
impersonal.  There  is  no  careless  enthusiasm,  excited  hilarity,  or 
mad  vengeance  —  simply  a  job  to  be  done.  The  enemy  alive 
present  a  target;  dead,  a  source  of  added  comfort  for  one's  self,  a 
souvenir  for  one's  brother,  or,  if  need  be,  material  for  a  parapet. 
One's  life  before  and  after  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  present. 
And  this  is  even  more  terrible  for  what  it  leaves  unsaid. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  385 

There  is,  however,  no  lack  of  vividness  in  A  Soldier  of  the 
Legion.  The  matter-of-factness  of  the  telling  deceives  us  only  for 
a  time,  until  the  intrusion  of  a  crisp,  'Hell  kissed  us  welcome'; 
or,  more  significant  still,  'And  we  were  counted:  eight  hundred 
and  fifty-two  in  the  entire  regiment,  out  of  three  thousand  two 
hundred  who  entered  the  attack  on  the  25th  of  September.' 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Does  the  conversational  tone  of  the  narrative  make  it  any  the  less 
vivid? 

2.  When  is  the  author's  power  of  vivid  portrayal  most  apparent? 

3.  What  ideas  do  you  get  of  the  Legion's  views  of  the  enemy?   Con 
trast  it  with  other  war  stories  you  have  read.   Could  it  be  accounted  for 
by  the  type  of  men  who  entered  the  Foreign  Legion? 

4.  What  in  the  author's  account  suggests  the  general  morale  of  the 
troops? 

5.  What  does  the  grimness  of  the  occasional  bits  of  humor  convey  as  to 
the  mental  state  of  the  men?  What  do  these  occasional  jokes  gain  by  their 
very  scarcity? 

6.  What  new  ideas  of  war  come  to  you  from  Sergeant  Morlae's  account? 


THE  BOULEVARD  OF  ROGUES 

MEREDITH  NICHOLSON  has  won  most  of  his  popularity  as  a 
novelist.  He  is,  however,  an  accomplished  essayist,  a  poet  of 
distinction,  and  a  keen  critic  of  current  literary  and  political 
matters.  More  recently,  he  has  become  interested  in  the  writing 
of  short  stories.  His  home  is  in  Indianapolis,  where  he  was 
privileged  to  enjoy  for  many  years  an  intimate  friendship  with 
James  Whitcomb  Riley,  whose  character  Mr.  Nicholson  has 
sympathetically  portrayed  in  his  novel,  The  Poet,  and  in  an 
illuminating  essay  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  October,  1916. 

Propaganda  in  such  disguise  needs  no  apology.  Not  only  can 
we  appreciate  the  cleverness  of  the  trick  as  well  as  the  earnestness 
of  its  author,  but  we  relish  what  a  very  good  thing  a  similar  les 
son  would  be  for  our  own  or  for  our  neighboring  cities. 

At  the  same  time,  there  is  a  worth-while  character-study  to  be 
made  of  the  Chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Art,  who  presents  a 
type  almost  as  rare  in  fiction  as  it  is  in  life. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  The  student  will  find  it  interesting  to  make  a  thorough  study  of 
Barton's  character  —  his  cynicism,  his  practical  good  sense,  and  all  his 
26 


386  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

other  prominent  traits.    A  composition  discussing  all  these  could  be 
made  very  interesting  and  enlightening. 

2.  Discuss  the  general  political  attitude  of  the  average  city  councilman. 

3.  In  an  examination  of  the  plot,  what  incident  seems  to  you  to  mark 
the  point  of  highest  interest?   Discuss  fully. 

4.  How  is  Barton's  character  relieved  from  any  final  censure  for  the 
spending  of  money  for  a  statue  of  a  rogue? 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ALANNA 

KATHLEEN  NORRIS,  a  Calif  ornian  by  birth,  has  been  a  volumi 
nous  writer  of  magazine  fiction  since  1910,  when  she  contributed 
two  stories  to  the  Atlantic  —  What  Happened  to  Alanna  and  The 
Tide  Marsh. 

To  those  who  know  Kathleen  Norris's  Mother,  nothing  more 
need  be  said  of  this  author's  ability  to  depict  the  wholesome  senti 
ment  of  family  life,  without  the  sentimentality  that  clings  to 
many  of  the  ordinary  short  stories  and  novels.  The  less  fortu 
nate  may  make  valuable  acquaintance  in  the  halls  of  Costello. 
F.  X.,  Senior,  *  undertaker  by  profession  and  mayor  by  an  im 
mense  majority,'  shares  his  position  of  importance  by  reason  of 
the  charms  of  his  numerous  offspring.  Mrs.  Costello  is,  of  course, 
the  centre  of  interest,  as  she  is  of  the  Costello  circle,  which  means 
all  who  come  within  range  of  her  generous  hand  and  kindly  word. 
Yet  no  one  remains  unindividualized.  A  few  vivid  strokes,  and 
the  picture  is  complete.  If  an  artistic  hand  adds  another  touch 
now  and  then,  we  are  never  made  conscious  of  technique.  Espe 
cially  is  this  true  in  the  case  of  young  Mrs.  Church.  And  what 
more  delightful  could  there  be  than  the  family  conversations, 
which  are  quite  as  revealing  in  points  of  character  as  they  are 
delightful  in  their  flashes  of  humor? 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  What  purpose  does  the  detailed  description  of  family  life  serve? 
Comment  on  the  choice  of  detail. 

2.  Besides  the  plot,  what  are  the  most  interesting  elements  in  the  story? 

3.  Could  you  suggest  another  climax? 

4.  What  is  gained  by  having  Alanna  solve  her  problem  alone?   How 
does  the  author  arrange  that  the  solution  shall  be  thus  accomplished? 

5.  Is  Mrs.  Church  introduced  for  any  reason  other  than  her  slight 
connection  with  the  plot? 

6.  Is  Mr.  Costello  as  well  portrayed  as  his  wife?  Can  you  suggest  any 
reasons  why  he  typifies  the  Irish-American  rather  than  the  native  Irish 
man  of  the  same  rank? 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  387 

7.  How  does  Miss  Norris  achieve  the  atmosphere  that  she  does? 

8.  Could  the  story  be  criticized  as  being  sentimental? 


SPENDTHRIFTS 

LAURA  SPENCER  PORTOR  (Mrs.  Francis  Pope)  has  long  been 
engaged  in  literary  work.  Her  essays  and  stories  'give  proof  of  a 
versatility  of  experience  as  Protean  as  her  talents.'  Mrs.  Pope  is 
now  connected  with  the  editorial  staff  of  one  of  the  prominent 
New  York  magazines. 

Perhaps  that  which  impresses  the  reader  most  in  Spendthrifts  is 
the  production  of  an  atmosphere  that  makes  the  strange  seem 
real,  and  the  commonplace  take  on  a  suggestion  of  the  fanciful. 
Not  half  so  wonderful  is  it  that  the  woman  of  the  orange-colored 
eyes  should  meet  the  lover  of  her  youth,  now  a  lay  Franciscan, 
and  live  again  with  him  the  story  of  their  love  before  a  smilingly 
complacent  husband,  as  that  this  story  should  have  been  unfolded 
before  the  eyes  of  a  romantic  little  girl  who  went  out  to  see  the 
world  in  a  rambling  old  coach.  The  author,  like  the  successful 
playwright,  completely  transfers  us  to  another  world.  The  careful 
preparation  of  atmosphere  is  followed  by  a  swift  march  of  events 
to  a  climax  the  more  powerful  by  the  necessity  of  its  restraint. 
The  gradual  trailing  off  into  the  dim  romantic  atmosphere  out  oi 
which  the  story  grew,  calls  for  a  curtain  that  may  be  raised  again 
only  on  the  author's  epilogue. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  What  can  you  say  by  way  of  comment  on  the  somewhat  leisurely 
beginning  of  this  story? 

2.  What  do  you  like  best  in  the  description  of  the  old-fashioned  'bus  ? 

3.  Justify  the  author's  early  paragraphs  on  the  herds  of  dumb  cattle. 

4.  Can  you  analyze  the  method  by  which  the  author  makes  even  her 
most  trivial  details  of  the  trip  seem  vital  and  interesting  ? 

5.  Is  it  true  that  most  of  these  details  —  both  narrative  and  descrip 
tive  —  assume  greater  importance  because  they  are  seen  through  a  child's 
vision? 

6.  What  items  bring  out  the  disturbed  feelings  of  the  Franciscan  soon 
after  he  enters  the  'bus? 

7.  Trace  the  details  that  very  gradually  portray  the  character  of 
Louise's  husband. 

8.  What  part  does  the  description  of  the  various  costumes  play  in  the 
portrayal  of  character? 

9.  As  Louise  analyzes  to  the  Franciscan  the  past  relations  existing 


388  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

between  them,  do  we  find  ourselves  sympathizing  with  one  or  the  other, 
or  with  neither? 

10.  What  is  the  intended  symbolism  of  the  title,  Spendthrifts  ? 

11.  What  is  symbolized  by  the  herd  of  cattle? 


CHILDREN  WANTED 

LUCY  PRATT,  a  frequent  contributor  to  magazines,  lives  in 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 

So  slight  is  the  plot  in  Children  Wanted  that  one  might  on  re 
flection  question  whether  there  is  a  plot.  In  the  actual  reading, 
one  becomes  too  absorbed  in  the  very  real  situation  that  Miss 
Pratt  presents  to  become  coldly  analytical.  The  vividness  of 
Master  Crosby  Tarbell's  particular  adventure  with  life  is  reflected, 
not  only  in  the  letter  Mr.  Henry  Tarbell  dispatches  to  a  certain 
Pony  Man,  but  in  the  reader's  own  warm  indignation  at  the  care 
lessness,  the  cowardice,  of  compromising  grown-ups  in  general. 
At  the  same  time,  Miss  Pratt's  masterly  use  of  commonplace  de 
tail,  fully  as  much  as  the  poignant  bits  of  character  delineation, 
such  as  that  which  ends  the  story,  makes  of  Children  Wanted  as 
effective  a  bit  of  narrative  technique  as  it  is  a  striking  example 
of  the  propagandist's  art. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  Is  the  chief  interest  of  the  story  in  the  principal  character  or  in  the 
underlying  theme? 

2.  Would  the  experience  have  meant  as  much  to  any  child? 

3.  Why  is  the  'lady  on  the  hill  road'  added  to  the  list  of  customers? 

4.  What  does  Crosby's  father  add  to  the  story  that  Crosby's  mother 
could  not?  Would  you  have  preferred  to  be  told  more  about  Mrs.  Tarbell? 

5.  Do  you  find  any  explanations  for  the  climax  in  the  previous  char 
acterization  of  Crosby?  How  has  the  detailed  description  of  the  barn 
helped  to  reveal  the  lad's  sensitiveness? 


THE  SQUIRE 

ELSIE  SINGMASTER  (Mrs.  H.  Lewars),  a  Pennsylvanian  by 
birth  and  residence,  has  been  writing  at  more  or  less  irregular 
intervals  ever  since  her  first  story  was  published  in  Scribner's 
Magazine  twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago.  Her  reputation  has  been 
largely  won  by  her  sympathetic  portrayal  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Dutch  character. 

How  adequately,  how  finally,  a  person  can  be  characterized 
by  his  own  conversations,  all  the  principals  in  this  little  Millers- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  389 

town  drama  demonstrate.  Weakness,  crudeness,  selfishness, 
speak  out  their  own  existence.  And,  to  shine  by  contrast  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  pettiness,  is  the  figure  of  a  man  who  makes  the 
title  'Squire'  mean  what  it  has  meant  to  certain  English  town 
ships,  and  whatever  more  comes  from  responsibility  assumed 
without  force  of  precedent  or  hope  of  recompense. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1 .  What  are  the  elements  which  produce  the  atmosphere  of  crudity  that 
stands  for  Millerstown?  Could  any  description  of  the  town  produce  a  like 
effect? 

2.  Would  it  have  detracted  from  the  story  if  Stemmel  had  been  more 
elaborately  portrayed? 

3.  How  is  the  solution  of  the  case  prevented  from  appearing  melo 
dramatic? 

4.  Would  the  Squire's  sacrifice  have  gained  or  lost  power  if  Adam  and 
Sula  were  less  irresponsible? 

5.  How  do  the  Squire's  actions  correspond  to  the  tradition  of  his  title? 
How  different  are  they  from  what  might  have  happened  in  a  like  situation 
in  England? 

6.  Do  you  think  Adam  and  Sula  worthy  of  the  Squire's  interest? 

7.  What  stories  growing  out  of  this  one  remain  to  be  told?    Which 
would  be  the  most  interesting? 


GREGORY  AND   THE  SCUTTLE 

CHARLES  HASKINS  TOWNSEND,  an  ichthyologist  of  interna 
tional  reputation,  has  been  a  member  of  many  U.  S.  government 
commissions.  His  present  address  is  The  Aquarium,  New  York. 

Gregory  and  the  Scuttle,  translated  into  the  literal,  means  '  How 
the  octopus  came  to  the  Aquarium.'  In  the  literal  version,  the 
account  might  have  been  buried  easily  and  unregretfully  in  the 
dry-as-dust  records  of  the  American  Aquarium  Society,  or  some 
such  august  receptacle  of  information;  as  it  is,  it  becomes  the 
easy,  chatty  adventure  of  one  who  proves  himself  human  as  well 
as  scientific.  Moreover,  it  behooves  the  practical  investigator  of 
the  educative  process  to  note  that,  by  this  sugar-coated  method, 
various  capsules  of  information  slip  down  without  violent  con 
traction  on  the  part  of  him  who  will  be  only  entertained. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 
1,  How  is  the  title  of  the  story  indicative  of  its  general  tone? 


390  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

2.  Would  Gregory's  vision  of  the  adventure  have  been  an  interesting 
one?  What  would  it  lack  that  the  scientist's  has? 

3.  When,  if  ever,  does  the  scientist  take  the  place  of  the  story-teller? 

4.  What  is  the  chief  charm  of  the  account?   Would  a  series  of  such 
adventures  —  with  all  necessary  variation  —  be  altogether  as  delightful? 

IN  NOVEMBER      . 

EDITH  WYATT  was  born  in  Wisconsin,  and  educated  at  Chicago 
and  Bryn  Mawr.  She  has  for  years  been  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  best  of  our  American  magazines.  Her  present  home  is  in 
Chicago. 

While  listening  to  Miss  Brackett's  naive  recital  of  her  personal 
narrative,  we  somehow  never  lose  consciousness  of  the  interesting 
environment  created  in  the  beginning  paragraphs.  In  most 
stories  where  the  interest  in  surroundings  is  strong,  we  are  chiefly 
concerned  with  the  setting  in  which  the  incidents  of  the  plot  take 
place.  In  this  instance,  however,  we  are  chiefly  interested  in  the 
autumnal  atmosphere  in  which  Miss  Brackett's  ingenuous  tale 
is  told.  Here  is  Lake  Michigan,  all  green  and  mist-blown,  band 
ing  the  whole  horizon.  There,  in  the  broad  southward,  lie  the 
full  contours  of  the  forest-covered  dunes.  And  over  all  is  the 
gray  and  purple  sky  of  the  late  autumn.  In  the  inner  circle  of  all 
this  is  the  camp,  with  Elsie  Norris  vividly  portrayed  in  the  centre. 
Her  isolation  is  broken  by  the  chance  guest,  who  tells  the  inti 
mate  personal  episodes,  so  charmingly  marked  by  the  artless 
notes  of  unselfishness.  When  the  guest  leaves  and  the  other 
campers  return,  and  Miss  Norris  wanders  off  alone  to  gather 
firewood  for  supper,  the  brooding  influence  of  the  pervading 
November  scene  is  felt  to  be  even  more  profound  and  impressive. 

Suggested  Points  for  Study  and  Comment 

1.  What  are  the  three  or  four  most  graphic  touches  in  the  story? 

2.  What,  aside  from  the  setting,  is  the  most  impressive  element  in  the 
story? 

3.  What  comment  can  you  make  on  Miss  Wyatt's  feeling  for  style? 
What  effects  does  she  produce? 

4.  Comment  on  the  slight  but  suggestive  glimpse  of  Baby's  charac 
ter.     What  other  personages  in  the  story  show  their  sympathy  for  Miss 
Brackett? 

5.  Was  it  worth  while  to  say  anything  about  Mrs.  Horick?  Why  is  she 
mentioned?  Do  the  slight  details  contribute  to  the  interest  of  the  story? 

6.  Mention  three  or  four  items  which  might  have  been  elaborated  into 
important  incidents  in  the  narrative.          U 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


RcC'D  Lt> 

! 

IAN  2  9  1959 

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^EC'D  LD 

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=,-.j.u^-SEP1 

• 

—  .  

LD  21A-50m-9,'58 
(6889slO)476B 

General  Library 
University  of  California 
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